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WIT.  OF  CALIF.  IJHMB.  W8  «!BUiS 


THE  ACCOLADE 


.    OF  PATTV     rrtjntnw 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

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BOSTON  :        SMALL. 


THE  ACCOLADE 


BY 


ETHEL  SIDGWICK 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1916 

BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 


PHMHI 

8.  J.  PAKKHILL  A  Co.,  BOSTOH,  U.S.A. 


TO 

F.  S. 


2132925 


CONTENTS 

PRELUDE 

PAGE 

THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE ,.,     .      3 

PART  I 
THE  ASPIRANT •     •     •     55 

PART  II 
THE  ARTIST 113 

PART  III 
THE  GOLDEN   FLEECE 179 

PART  IV 
THE  SELF-DECEIVER 243 

PARTY 
STRETTO .  321 

FINALE 
"As  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING" 421 


I 

I 

w 


CO 

W 
O 

S5 
i— i 

W 


II—1 


PRELUDE 


THE  ACCOLADE 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 


JOHN  INGESTRE  junior,  coming  in  from  the  stables  by  a 
complicated  back  way  of  his  own  invention  —  there  were 
plenty  to  choose  from  at  the  Hall  —  paused  at  the  door 
of  the  butler's  pantry. 

"  Anyone  in  the  drawing- room,  Markham  ?  "  he  asked 
in  confidence. 

"  Mrs.  Thynne  and  Miss  Ursula,  Mr.  John,"  said  the 
permanent  official  he  addressed,  who  was  polishing  glass. 

"  Dash  Mrs.  Thynne,"  said  Johnny.  "  I  mean,  I  knew 
she  was  there  already.  Is  there  anyone  that  matters  ?  " 
He  slashed  his  legs  lightly  with  his  whip,  to  convey  an 
idea  to  Markham,  connected  with  the  mud  they  liberally 
displayed.  Markham  understood  correctly  that  Johnny's 
betrothed  and  her  mother  could  (or  must)  stand  him  in 
any  garb,  but  some  of  the  ladies  of  the  district  were  more 
fastidious.  Being  a  permanent  official,  however,  it  was 
hard  to  move  Markham  from  his  chosen  line. 

"Lady  Lydia  is  also  with  Mrs.  Ingestre,  sir " 

"  Dash  Lady  Lydia !  "  said  Johnny,  cheerfully.  "  Bert, 
we  shall  get  some  tea,  at  this  rate."  Bert,  in  Johnny's 
rear,  in  even  more  splashed  and  unseemly  attire,  was  Lord 
Dering's  heir,  an  immensely  important  person  everywhere 
but  in  Johnny's  society. 

"  Mrs.  Clewer  called,  sir,"  said  Markham,  "  but  may 
have  left  again  unknown  to  me,  since  she  looked  in  to  see 
the  conservatory." 

3 


4  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Who's  Mrs.  Clewer  ? "  said  Bert,  as  John's  face 
lengthened. 

"  An  American,"  he  said  briefly,  "  with  the  native 
standards.  Oh,  Lord,  Markham,  I've  got  to  change,  and 
I'm  so  tired."  He  sat  down  upon  a  pantry  chair  and  laid 
his  head  on  the  back  of  it.  The  movement  was  a  sudden 
one,  and  made  Markham's  stores  of  cut  glass  ring  again : 
the  attitude,  like  all  Johnny's  attitudes,  was  emotionally 
effective.  Markham  glanced  at  him,  not  moved, —  that 
was  impossible, —  nor  protesting, —  he  was  too  used  to  it : 
tolerant,  benignly. 

"  You  go  and  wash,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I'll  send  some  tea 
up  there.  Then  you  can  dress  and  see  the  ladies  after- 
wards. If  Mrs.  Clewer  goes,  she  goes ;  but  if  she  stays, 
she  stays." 

"You  paint  Mrs.  Clewer  to  the  life,"  said  Johnny. 
"  She  does  everything  thoroughly,  doesn't  she  ?  Oh, 
Lord,  she's  so  pretty,  Bert, —  and  Ursula  can't  bear  her. 
She  and  Ursula  are  cat  and  dog.  Was  she  scrapping  with 
Miss  Thynne  when  you  last  went  in,  Markham?  Be- 
cause if  they're  really  at  it,  I'll  risk  all,  and  take  Bering 
in  to  see  the  fun." 

"  When  I  last  went  in,  sir,"  said  Markham,  "  all  the 
ladies  were  listening  to  Dr.  Ashwin " 

"To  who?" 

"  Dr.  and  Miss  Ashwin  arrived  by  the  four-ten,  sir.  I 
understood  they  were  expected." 

"  The  deuce,"  said  Johnny,  frankly  surprised.  "  They 
weren't,  here :  but  I  own  it  doesn't  go  for  much.  I  sup- 
pose Mother  knew  about  it." 

"  What's  Miss  Ashwin  ?  "  said  the  simple  Bert.  As  for 
doctors  anything,  Mr.  Dering  took  no  stock  in  them :  but 
a  Miss  might  always  be  a  thing  of  interest. 

Markham  waited  politely  for  Johnny  to  answer ;  but  as 
Johnny  only  hid  his  head  in  his  arms  on  the  chair, 
in  apparent  complete  collapse,  he  replied  after  an  inter- 
val. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  5 

"  Miss  Asliwin  is  a  young  lady,  sir, —  what  one  might 
call  extremely  young." 

"  She's  nobody  at  all  at  present,"  said  Johnny.  "  But 
her  father  is  rather  —  otherwise.  Her  father  —  er  — 
exists.  We  have  heard  about  him, —  and  he  married  Fa- 
ther's female  cousin,  which  brings  him  into  the  family." 
He  had  another  crisis  of  tragedy.  "  And  he's  sure  to 
need  setting  down,  and  Father's  not  at  home  to  do  it.  I 
shall  have  to  buck  up,  and  I  don't  want  to.  Oh,  Lord! 
—  Markham,  what  was  he  telling  the  ladies  ? "  He 
turned  his  languid  head  on  his  dirty  hand,  opening  his 
dark  eyes  full  upon  the  retainer.  Johnny  came  of  a  stock 
that  could  hardly  be  ugly  if  they  tried,  and  he  was  a 
handsome  specimen.  The  butler,  who  had  been  looking 
at  him,  desisted  sedately. 

"  So  far  as  I  happened  to  hear,  sir,"  he  said,  "  the  doc- 
tor was  talking  about  a  murder  case, —  a  kind  of  cause 
celebre  somewhere  back  in  history.  Charles  Second,  I 
heard  him  say,  sir.  Something  to  do  with  this  house,  if 
I  am  not  mistaken." 

"  Hullo,"  said  Johnny,  rousing.  "  What's  he  know 
about  it  ?  I  say,  Markham,  was  there  another  man  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  only  the  ladies." 

Johnny  sniffed.  "  Come  on,  Bert,"  he  said,  suddenly 
galvanized,  "  we'll  make  a  mixed  audience,  you  and  me. 
We'll  just  wash  our  hands  first,  for  safety.  No  outsider 
is  going  to  preach  to  my  relations  —  I  mean,  people  who 
will  be  my  relations  presently  —  about  my  own  house.  It 
simply  isn't  safe  for  Ursula  to  listen  to  it,  without  me  to 
help.  We'll  go  and  —  er  —  create  a  diversion,  shall 
we?" 

"  Rather,"  said  Mr.  Dering.     So  they  went. 

They  created  a  diversion  in  the  drawing-room.  Johnny, 
it  must  be  admitted,  generally  did.  He  had  secured  at- 
tention in  the  district,  not  only  as  a  stirring  personality, 
an  only  son,  and  the  heir  to  an  extensive  property  in  two 


6  THE  ACCOLADE 

counties;  though  these  facts  lent  him  interest,  naturally. 
Johnny,  so-called  since  the  first  generation  was  John,  had 
had  the  misfortune  to  differ  with  his  father,  at  an  early 
age.  That  is,  he  had  always  differed  with  his  father,  more 
or  less ;  but  he  had,  since  his  schooldays,  three  years  back 
—  he  was  only  twenty-two  at  present  —  been  at  violent 
odds  with  him,  and  he  had  been  but  lately  recaptured  by 
authority,  and  penned,  as  it  were,  into  his  own.  The 
romance  of  the  prodigal  clung  to  him  still ;  and  since  his 
father  —  also  a  stirring  personality  —  was  regarded  with 
considerable  awe  in  this,  his  native  county,  Johnny  had 
earned  in  outfacing  him  not  only  curiosity,  but  some 
respect. 

He  had  begun,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  by  flatly  refusing 
to  follow  the  path  of  tradition  to  Oxford,  and  declaring 
that  he  was  going  on  the  stage.  There  should  have  been 
nothing  particularly  surprising  in  this,  since  his  paternal 
grandmother  had  been  an  actress,  and  he  had  the  acting 
bent  strongly  in  the  blood ;  but  the  family  were  surprised. 
Johnny's  father  and  his  grandmother  were  furious,  and  all 
his  aunts  were  shocked.  He  avoided  unpleasantness  by 
not  going  home,  merely  pursuing  his  own  way  of  life  in 
London,  with  a  doggedness  and  indifference  to  his  own 
ultimate  advantage  that  disconcerted  everybody,  his  father 
in  secret  most  of  all. 

Every  means  was  tried  to  detach  him  in  vain.  He  was 
bullied  and  bribed,  tricked  and  tempted,  his  allowance 
curtailed,  his  prospects  threatened,  all  to  no  avail. 
Johnny  liked  his  new  friends,  and  he  did  not  happen  to 
like  his  father.  The  parental  methods,  for  some  time  past, 
had  bored  him.  Having  always  figured  as  a  rebel,  he  had 
tried  all  his  father's  moods,  and  admired  none  of  them. 
He  always  gave  a  good  account  of  himself  in  their  engage- 
ments, and  flamed  out  himself  at  times ;  but  unreasoning 
and  unvarying  irascibility  annoyed  and  distracted  him, 
though  he  did  not  say  so.  To  betray  sensitiveness  in  such 
surroundings  was  useless.  He  wanted  to  be  quit  of  them 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  7 

simply,  and  to  try  his  own  life.  At  a  distance  of  thirty 
miles  or  so,  he  could  stand  his  relations  very  well,  and 
rather  enjoyed,  in  the  intervals  of  artistic  study,  the 
assault  levied  so  tirelessly  upon  him.  After  all,  if  things 
came  to  the  worst,  with  the  new  arts  he  was  learning,  he 
could  always  knock  his  father  down :  lay  him  out  tidily, 
that  is, —  since  Mr.  Ingestre  was  rather  old  and  infirm, 
there  was  no  need  to  proceed  to  extremities:  though  at 
times  he  had  thoughts  of  that,  when  he  suspected  that  his 
mother  at  home  was  suffering  among  the  combatants.  As 
for  his  grandmother,  she  was  for  obvious  reasons  older 
still ;  but  then  there  was  good  hope  of  her  coming  to  a 
natural  end,  before  she  insulted  him  or  his  mother  past 
bearing.  Johnny,  piously  minded,  commended  her  to  na- 
ture's attention,  and  went  on. 

The  year  succeeding  that  of  his  majority,  his  mother 
fell  ill.  Three  months  later,  to  the  surprise  of  the  people 
whom  he  had  surprised  already,  Johnny  collapsed.  He 
gave  in, —  went  to  heel,  to  use  his  father's  term, —  and 
that  in  such  a  pleasant  and  unexpected  manner,  that  his 
irate  relations,  cut  off  in  full  tide,  were  left  feeling  rather 
foolish,  as  though  wondering  what  there  had  been  to  ex- 
cite themselves  about,  in  such  a  nice  young  man.  He  even 
managed  to  convey  to  some  of  them  that  the  whole  three- 
years'  escapade  had  been  a  device  to  "  have  them  on," — 
only,  not  his  own  parents.  They  knew  him,  in  their  sev- 
eral ways,  too  well.  The  exact  nature  of  the  drama  on 
the  hearth  was  never  made  public ;  the  world  merely  saw 
the  results.  Johnny's  mother  looked  the  wreck  of  what 
she  had  been;  Mr.  Ingestre,  in  conquering  his  turbulent 
heir,  seemed  to  have  crossed  a  stage  of  life,  and  was 
quieter,  if  no  less  superb,  in  his  tyranny.  Johnny  re- 
mained himself  outwardly,  cheerful  and  undismayed,  and 
turned  his  attention  to  sporting  abroad,  and  flirting  at 
home,  in  the  approved  fashion,  with  marked  success  in 
both  departments.  He  also  engaged  himself,  with  the 
paternal  blessing,  to  an  eligible  young  woman  with  the 


8  THE  ACCOLADE 

proper  antecedents,  with  whom  he  was  in  love,  and  who 
was  generally  understood  to  be  devoted  to  him.  Not  that 
this  went  for  much,  for  plenty  of  young  ladies  were  de- 
voted to  Johnny.  But  it  completed  the  picture  of  do- 
mestic felicity  on  the  Ingestre  hearth  appropriately;  and 
made  the  prodigal's  future  prospects  —  to  quote  his  own 
expression  when  congratulated  — "  very  jolly  indeed." 

There  was  a  little  crowd  of  people  in  the  drawing-room, 
friends,  family,  and  the  indifferent.  Johnny,  thanks  to 
Markham,  had  been  enabled  to  class  them  in  advance. 
Family,  in  addition  to  his  mother  and  the  usual  fringe  of 
aunts,  were  Miss  Thynne,  so  soon  to  bear  the  name  that 
she  counted  as  kin,  and  Mrs.  Thynne,  into  the  terms  of 
whose  proximate  relationship  John  did  not  pry  too 
closely.  Friends  represented  were  Lady  Lydia  aged  fifty, 
attached  to  his  mother,  and  Mrs.  Clewer  aged  twenty-five, 
attached  to  himself.  Among  these  interesting  and  neces- 
sary people,  Dr.  Ashwin  held  a  post  on  the  outskirts,  on 
trial  as  it  were,  to  be  accepted  as  family  if  he  so  behaved. 
Dr.  Ashwin's  little  girl  with  her  hair  tied  back  in  a  large 
bow  was  the  indifferent, —  Bert,  who  had  young  sisters, 
could  see  to  her. 

Johnny,  having  arranged  all  this  in  his  mind  as  he 
crossed  the  hall,  greeted  the  company  as  befitted  their 
style  and  standing,  not  to  say  his  own  as  temporary  host. 
He  was  fortunately  supreme,  in  the  present  conditions. 
His  mother's  strictures  upon  his  appearance  he  accepted 
with  philosophy, —  a  mere  form,  since  she  could  not  really 
be  sorry  to  see  him.  He  and  Bert  had  obviously  come  to 
help  her,  in  defiance  of  all  their  natural  instincts  to  go 
upstairs  and  wash. 

He  helped  with  Mrs.  Clewer  first. 

"  Dr.  Ashwin's  been  curdling  us  in  the  lov-liest  way," 
she  told  him.  "  And  he  requires  us  to  believe  nothing  at 
all,  which  is  the  lov-liest  part.  I  never  forget  things  I'm 
not  required  to  believe, —  do  you  ? " 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  9 

"  Never,"  said  Johnny  fervently.  "  And  vice  versa. 
It  was  always  getting  into  my  school  reports." 

"  Where  were  you  educated  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Clewer  agree- 
ably. "  Eton  ?  Oh,  perhaps  I  ought  to  know." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Johnny,  his  face  a  blank.  "  It  could 
hardly  be  expected  of  you.  A  native  would  know  on 
sight." 

"  Even  in  that  cos-toom,"  said  Mrs.  Clewer.  "  Well, 
now,  yes,  I  might  have  guessed  it.  The  way  you  wear 
your  mud  is  so  becoming, —  and  the  way  you  are  at  pres- 
ent transferring  it  to  Miss  Ashwin's  shoes." 

Johnny,  who  was  lying  full  length  in  his  low  chair, 
moved  his  feet  about  a  hundredth  of  an  inch.  "  Dering," 
he  announced,  "  is  the  only  other  object-lesson  present, 
but  it's  too  dark  for  you  to  study  him.  He  had  a  gov- 
erness —  I  mean  a  tutor  —  but  he  went  on  afterwards  to 
Oxford.  Now,  I  did  not." 

"  Is  that  so,"  said  Mrs.  Clewer,  who  knew  all  about 
him.  "  Then  let's  see.  You  are  Eton,  but  not  Oxford ; 
and  Mr.  Dering  is  Oxford,  but  not  Eton ;  and  Dr.  Ashwin 
is  presoomably  the  purr-feet  product  of  both." 

"  Oh,  Lord,  no, — "  Johnny,  lowering  his  tone  a  trifle, 
was  proceeding  to  explain,  when  the  indifferent  child,  a 
yard  from  his  right  elbow,  said  distinctly  and  softly, — 
"  Yes." 

Johnny  turned  his  handsome  head.  He  looked  at  her  a 
moment  as  a  very  large  dog  regards  a  very  small  cat. 
Then  he  turned  back  to  Mrs.  Clewer,  and  resumed  his 
conversation. 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Mrs.  Clewer,  when  he  took  her  out 
to  the  hall  at  her  departure,  some  minutes  later,  "  why  you 
want  to  treat  that  little  girl  like  that.  That  is  not  my  idea 
of  the  perfect  Etonian,  anyhow.  She'll  be  pretty  one 
day." 

"  Will  she?  "  said  Johnny.  He  culled  a  few  more  opin- 
ions,—  Mrs.  Clewer's  were  always  worth  having, —  deliv- 
ered in  a  gay  inexpressive  tone.  Dr.  Ashwin,  as  he  ex- 


io  THE  ACCOLADE 

pected,  was  a  very  intelligent  man.  He  came  up  to  what 
Mrs.  Clewer  had  heard  of  him, —  of  course  she  had  heard. 
Mr.  Bering,  she  presumed,  represented  a  class 

"  Oh,  give  him  a  chance,"  said  Johnny. 

Then  he  heard  about  the  merits  of  Ursula,  his  fiancee, 
her  soo-periority  of  tone,  her  accomplishments,  and  her 
style.  As  Miss  Thynne  and  Mrs.  Clewer  had  been  cat  and 
dog  at  a  recent  lunch-party,  this  amused  Johnny:  but 
he  answered  sedately  enough.  One  of  the  many  things 
he  liked  about  Mrs.  Clewer  was  her  American  manners. 
They  were  a  little  more  ornamental  than  the  English  ones, 
and  he  had  a  taste  for  such  ornament.  Besides,  it  was 
a  fact  that  Ursula  had  style,  though  it  was  a  very  differ- 
ent style  from  Mrs.  Clewer's. 

He  showed  her  out  via  the  conservatory,  which  took 
time,  so  great  was  her  enthusiasm  over  the  flowers. 
Johnny  explained  at  length  how  he  would  have  liked  to 
present  his  guest  with  certain  chrysanthemums  to  match 
her  dress :  but  how  his  head  would  be  taken  off,  first  by 
his  father,  and  then  by  the  gardener,  if  he  did. 

"  But  this  is  your  mother's  hot-house,  surely,"  said  Mrs. 
Clewer. 

"  So-called,"  said  Johnny.  "  The  general  effect  is  hers. 
If  she  picked  a  flower,  her  head  would  come  off  with  just 
the  same  ease  as  mine." 

"  Or  King  Charles',"  mused  Mrs.  Clewer.  "  Wonder- 
ful, the  etiquette  persisting  in  your  first  families.  Don't 
you  just  love  to  get  back  to  it  all,  say  now !  "  She  faced 
him  mischievously. 

Johnny  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  since  he  did  not 
wish  to  tell  the  truth.  His  eyes  roved.  Then  he  said  — 
"  It's  very  nice  to  listen  to  Ursula's  music  in  the  even- 
ings." 

"  Don't  you  sing  to  her  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Clewer. 

"  Oh  dear  no.     I  sing  to  Mother  sometimes." 

"Her  mother?" 

"  Oh,   Lord,   no,    Mrs.   Clewer.     Mine."     He   waited, 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  n 

and  then  asked,  "  I  say,  how  do  you  think  my  mother's 
looking?  " 

"  Better  than  she  did  last  year,"  said  Mrs.  Clewer  after 
consideration.  "  I  incurred  your  father's  displeasure  last 
year,  by  inviting  her  to  go  back  with  me  for  a  short  stay 
of  six  months  or  so.  My,  your  father  was  vexed  with 
me  in  June.  I  said  I  found  a  good  yearly  holiday  from 
family  care  paid  to  purr-fection  in  my  own  case,  and  Mrs. 
Ingestre  might  find  the  same.  I  thought  to  myself  that 
your  father  and  you  could  investigate  your  differences 
while  she  was  gone,  and  generally  speaking  settle  up." 

"  It  was  beastly  kind  of  you,"  said  Johnny  fervently. 

"  But  I'd  have  lov-d  to  have  had  her,"  explained  Mrs. 
Clewer.  "  So  would  Sydney  and  the  girls.  We'd  have 
had  a  beautiful  time,  all  together  in  the  Adirondacks. 
But  there, —  your  notions  are  so  different!  And  now 
your  mother  has  got  you,  anyway.  And  so's  Miss 
Thynne." 

The  last  sentence  was  in  a  slightly  different  tone,  since 
Mrs.  Clewer  clearly  thought  she  had  been  serious  long 
enough.  She  and  Johnny  "  ragged,"  in  a  regrettable  man- 
ner, in  the  hall  to  which  the  conservatory  gave  exit,  and 
Markham,  aware  that  Mr.  John  was  an  engaged  young 
man,  pretended  not  to  see  them. 

His  help  was  no  longer  needed,  on  returning  to  the 
drawing-room.  Dr.  Ashwin  was  talking  historical  scan- 
dal again,  to  Lady  Lydia  this  time,  so  Johnny  sat  down 
next  to  Ursula,  within  range,  so  as  to  check  him  if  neces- 
sary. He  had  not  yet  tried  to  check  Dr.  Ashwin,  but  he 
was  certain  it  could  be  done.  Ursula  looked  handsome  as 
usual,  fair  and  pleasant  in  the  fire-light,  but  rather  serious. 
She  was  in  need  of  attention,  probably. 

Johnny  attended  to  her,  discreetly.  She  did  not  like 
him  to  over-do  it  in  public,  but  then  publicity  is  tempered 
when  the  twilight  is  falling.  He  established  communica- 
tions with  Ursula  in  Dr.  Ashwin's  despite.  Then  he 


12  THE  ACCOLADE 

edged  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  her,  glancing  at  the  child 
the  while.  Almost  in  the  same  instant,  the  child  turned 
away,  inclining  her  head  to  her  father's  shoulder,  and 
curling  her  little  hand  inside  his  arm.  This  was  really 
quite  well-chosen  behavior,  for  what  is  generally  the  in- 
quisitive age,  and  Johnny's  educational  instinct  approved 
of  it.  Also  the  attitude  and  its  suggestion  were  singu- 
larly pretty,  and  while  he  talked  nonsense  to  Ursula,  he 
cast  her  occasional  glances.  He  wondered  if  she  were 
badly  bored,  since  she  must  know  all  her  father's  smart 
anecdotes  already.  Nobody  had  spoken  to  her  at  pres- 
ent, so  far  as  he  had  seen,  and  she  was  not  being  encour- 
aged at  head-quarters, —  the  man  ignored  her.  Johnny 
caught  his  mother's  eyes  upon  him  at  one  point,  and  prob- 
ably shot  his  thought  to  her.  Anyhow,  Mrs.  Ingestre 
proposed  shortly  afterwards  that  Violet  should  be  taken 
to  her  room.  As  she  suggested  it,  her  eyes  rested  upon 
her  prospective  daughter-in-law.  She  was  all  but  an  in- 
valid herself. 

"  Get  on,  Ursula,"  Johnny  whispered.     "  Your  move." 

"  It's  yours,"  murmured  Ursula,  half-smiling. 

"  Rot !  How  can  I  take  a  young  lady  to  her  room  ? 
When  I'm  engaged  too, —  awful." 

"  She's  only  a  kid,"  said  Ursula.  "  Go  on, —  your 
mother's  looking." 

"  I'm  jolly  shy,"  said  Johnny.  "  It's  jolly  caddish  of 
you,  throwing  it  on  me.  You'll  have  to  do  it,  one  of 
these  days." 

"  Sufficient  for  the  day,"  said  Ursula.  "  I  don't  look 
forward." 

"  Oh,  I  say, —  don't  you?  "  murmured  Johnny. 

"  You  ought  to  have  changed,"  said  Ursula  reproach- 
fully, laying  a  hand  on  his  mud-splashed  knee.  "  I  saw 
Mrs.  Clewer  thinking  so." 

"  You'll  have  to  reform  me,"  said  Johnny,  laying  his 
hand  on  hers.  "  I  like  reforming.  I  do  it  suddenly  every 
now  and  then,  and  startle  people " 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  13 

"  Don't  ring,  Agatha," —  the  doctor's  keen  tone  cut 
through  his.  "  Tell  her  just  how  many  turns,  and  she 
can  find  it  for  herself." 

"  Can  she  ?  I  like  that !  "  Stirred  by  the  tone  of  au- 
thority as  by  a  war-cry,  Johnny  arose.  "  Which  room 
did  you  say,  Mother?  Right-o.  Come  along." 

Mrs.  Ingestre,  her  tired  face  clearing  slightly,  turned 
back  to  her  other  duties.  Ursula  was  rather  vexed,  partly 
because  John  had  abandoned  her,  partly  because  she  knew 
in  her  heart  it  was  her  office,  and  not  his. 

Johnny  did  not  tell  Miss  Ashwin  the  hour  of  dinner, 
because  he  could  not  remember  what  time  children  of  that 
age  went  to  bed.  Nor  was  it  really  a  question  of  remem- 
bering, since  he  had  hardly  hitherto  come  in  contact  with 
little  girls.  He  was  quite  at  sea  about  her,  and  could 
not  even  guess  her  age.  It  was  far  too  much  trouble  to 
reckon  it,  naturally;  so  he  asked  her  father,  when  he 
showed  him  to  his  room  in  turn. 

"  Just  fourteen,"  said  Dr.  Ashwin.  "  I  hope  she  will 
not  be  in  your  mother's  way.  I  have  warned  her.  It  is 
extremely  good  of  Agatha,  in  the  circumstances,  to  take 
us." 

Johnny  wondered  which  circumstances, —  his  father's 
absence,  his  own  courtship,  or  the  more  intimate  anxiety 
concerning  his  mother's  state.  After  a  minute,  since  it 
was  a  doctor  —  and  an  Etonian  —  he  asked.  Then  he 
found  it  was  as  he  suspected,  and  this  very  acute  person 
had  swept  up  every  detail  connected  with  his  mother's 
ill-health,  which  had  verged  on,  and  just  missed,  becom- 
ing a  serious  illness.  Dr.  Ashwin  had  been  watching  her 
in  the  drawing-room,  it  appeared,  inclined  to  think  she 
did  too  much,  and  asked  if  she  had  anyone  to  help  her. 

"  Not  since  the  nurse  left,"  said  Johnny.  "  She's  got  a 
frightfully  all-round  maid,  who  puts  us  all  in  our  places, 
Father  included." 

"  That's  something,"  the  doctor  admitted.  "  You've 
not  got  a  sister, —  no." 


14  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.  "  My  wife,  when  she's  my  wife, 
will  help  her  probably." 

Dr.  Ashwin  laughed,  very  pleasantly.  "  Better  not 
count  on  that,"  he  said.  "  When  are  you  to  be  married, 
John?" 

Johnny  found  himself  answering  questions  after  that, 
as  one  answers  a  superior,  not  an  equal  even.  He  even 
caught  himself  up  once,  on  the  verge  of  saying  "  sir." 
Now  Johnny  had  always  tried  not  to  call  his  schoolmas- 
ters "  sir,"  and  owing  to  his  agreeable  manner,  had  gen- 
erally succeeded.  He  resented  it  of  course,  in  Dr.  Ash- 
win's  case,  nor  could  he  account  for  the  impulse  after- 
wards: for  the  doctor  was  neither  large,  like  his  own 
father,  nor  old,  nor  powerful,  nor  even  particularly 
brilliant,  at  least  in  familiar  talk.  At  dinner  he  be- 
came what  Johnny  called  "  otherwise,"  and  held  the  com- 
pany. 

Johnny,  sitting  in  his  father's  chair,  "  bucked  up  "  to 
match  him,  in  vain.  He  was  outmatched,  at  his  own 
dining-table, —  for  about  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  wanted 
his  father.  His  father  might,  just  conceivably,  have  kept 
this  stranger  in  his  place.  Yet  he  was  amused,  and  that, 
in  life,  is  something;  and  he  saw  his  mother  laugh,  which 
was  still  more.  She  laughed  —  really  laughed  —  so  sel- 
dom nowadays :  Johnny  could  forgive  much  when  he  saw 
it,  down  the  table's  length. 

However,  later  on,  in  the  drawing-room,  he  complained 
to  Ursula.  He  found  a  nice  quiet  corner,  complained  at 
length,  and  asked  to  be  consoled.  He  had  been  sat  upon, 
he  said,  and  in  Bert's  presence :  not  once  only,  but  several 
times. 

"  How  good  for  you,"  said  Ursula.  "  I  wish  I  had 
heard." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't,"  said  Johnny.  "  Our  subjects 
were  totally  unsuitable.  Anyhow  they  would  have  been 
above  your  head.  .  .  .  Ursula." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Ursula,  who  was  sewing  something. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  15 

"  Ashwin  was  talking  about  the  stage." 

"  Well,"  said  Ursula,  "  you  ought  to  have  been  able  to 
hold  your  own  there." 

"  That's  just  it.  I  know  about  the  stage.  He  doesn't, 
—  he  can't  possibly, —  but  he  talked  me  down.  Sicken- 
ing —  cheek !  " 

"  I'm  glad  if  you  weren't  rude  to  him,"  said  Ursula 
"  You  are  so  often  when  you  think  you  know." 

"  I  was  rude,"  said  Johnny  indignantly.  "  But  it  made 
no  difference.  He's  been  everywhere,  seen  all  the  stages. 
He  knows  back  history,  before  I  was  born,  and  remembers 
dates.  Dates!  He  was  beastly  amusing  by  the  way, — 
oh,  he  was  damned  amusing " 

"  John  !  "     A  pleasant  interval. 

"  I  say,  do  you  think  he  bullies  that  kid  behind-scenes  ?  " 
said  Johnny  presently. 

"  Why  should  he  ?  "  said  Ursula.  "  No  one  does  nowa- 
days." 

"  Dunno.  She's  so  watchful, —  watching  him  all  the 
time.  Hadn't  you  noticed  it  ?  " 

"  She's  shy,  probably."  Ursula  cast  a  glance  in  Vio- 
let's direction.  Johnny  was  already  looking  that  way,  his 
head  close  to  her  shoulder,  his  dark  eyes  steadily  fixed. 
He  was  interested,  she  could  not  think  why.  The  child 
was  shy  and  silent,  and  gave  them,  as  though  forewarned, 
a  very  wide  berth.  "  It's  a  big  house,"  Ursula  pursued, 
"  and  her  first  visit.  I  should  think  that's  enough." 

"  She  thinks  she's  not  wanted,"  remarked  Johnny. 

Ursula  did  not  reply  to  that.  Presently,  as  he  lay  si- 
lent, she  said  — "  She's  sitting  all  alone.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  go  and  talk  to  her." 

"  Er  —  don't,"  said  Johnny. 

"But  I  ought.  She's  your  mother's  guest, —  and 
yours." 

"  Yes.    That  make  you  feel  responsible  ?  " 

He  gave  her  a  very  nice  glance,  and  she  blushed.  Oc- 
casionally, he  shook  her  composure  like  that,  not  often. 


16  THE  ACCOLADE 

Ursula  had  been  very  well  brought  up.  He  was  "  nice," 
John, —  good-looking  and  well-behaved.  She  understood 
from  his  aunts  that  he  had  not  always  been  well-behaved, 
but  he  was,  just  now.  He  had  gratified  the  family.  He 
was  a  tremendous  parti, —  really  tremendous,  for  Ursula's 
pretensions;  but  she  had  never,  even  in  her  letters  to  her 
dearest  friends,  betrayed  the  slightest  exultation.  She 
spoke  of  "  John  "  to  people  very  quietly,  much  as  she  did 
of  her  brothers ;  and  when  she  could,  she  held  her  mother 
in. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  after  a  little  more  nonsense. 
"  Call  the  kid  here." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  call  her,"  said  Ursula.  "  You 
can't  call  an  object  of  that  age  Miss." 

"  Course  you  can't,"  said  Johnny.  "  She'll  be  your 
cousin  soon.  Psst ! "  He  whistled  softly.  "  What's- 
your-name, —  Violet, —  come  along  here.  Miss  Thynne 
has  got  something  to  say  to  you."  Violet  glanced  once  at 
her  father,  then  came.  "  Sit  down  there,"  said  Johnny, 
pointing  to  a  stool.  She  did  so,  clasping  her  knees. 
"  Now  then,  answer  nicely.  Miss  Thynne  is  going  to 
show  us  all  the  way  to  do  it." 

"  What  time,"  said  Ursula  quietly,  "  do  you  go  to 
bed?" 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  protested  Johnny.  "  I  should  never  have 
started  like  that.  I  should  have  led  up  to  it,  easy." 

"  Almost  at  once,"  said  Violet.  "  Now,  really,  if  that 
clock  is  right.  That  was  what  I  was  considering,  whether 
to  say  good-night." 

"  It's  generally  done  in  good  circles,"  said  Johnny. 
"  Why  were  you  considering  it  ?  " 

"  Because  of  something  Father  said.  He  might  — 
want  me." 

"  For  a  date?  "  asked  Johnny.  "  I  say,  were  any  of  his 
dates  wrong,  at  dinner?" 

"  How  should  she  know  ?  "  said  Ursula. 

"  I  hoped  she  just  might, —  not  had  time  to  forget  them. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  17 

You  learn  lots  of  dates,  don't  you  ?  When  you  were  her 
age,  Ursula,  you  probably  knew  heaps  of  things." 

"  Do  you  mean  I'm  ignorant  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  Heaven." 

"  Do  you  like  ignorance  ?  "  said  Violet. 

"  Rather,"  said  Johnny.  "  Except,  of  course,  in  the 
people  I  pay  to  know.  People  like  secretaries,  and  solici- 
tors, and  doctors " 

"  Don't  attend  to  him,"  said  Ursula  kindly. 

"  I  pay  Miss  Thynne,"  said  Johnny,  "  or  rather,  I  shall 
pay  her,  shortly,  to  know  nothing " 

"  John,  how  horrid  you  are ! "  said  Ursula,  really  in- 
dignant. "  Pay  me,  indeed !  A  nice  time  you'd  have  if 
I  didn't  know  a  great  deal  more  than  you  do ! " 

She  had  flushed,  and  seemed  really  offended.  Johnny 
was  amused. 

"  Go  it,"  he  said.  "  Back  her  up,"  he  directed  Violet. 
Violet  smiled  absently.  Her  eyes  were,  as  usual,  on  her 
father,  who  had  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"  There ! "  said  Johnny.  "  Bed-time.  Go  along, 
kiddy." 

"  Are  we  to  have  no  music  ?  "  said  his  mother's  voice. 
"  Ursula." 

"  John  has  just  been  informing  me  he  pays  me  to  know 
nothing,"  said  Ursula.  "  So  I  certainly  shan't  amuse  him 
by  playing.  He  must  do  it." 

"  My  dear !  "  said  her  own  mother,  distressed.  She 
never  understood  humor,  even  Ursula's.  "  John  was 
joking,"  she  added  in  the  pause. 

"  Rather,"  said  Johnny.     "  I  didn't  mean  that." 

But  Ursula  persisted,  though  pleasantly,  in  refusing. 
She  was  easy  as  she  was  determined,  quite.  She  replied 
to  the  pressure  put  upon  her  lightly,  since  it  struck  her, 
not  for  the  first  time,  that  the  pressure  was  light  as  well. 
The  Ingestres  were  courteous,  but  she  barely  reached  their 
standard.  They  were  a  musicianly  family.  Ursula  was 
quick  in  such  situations,  and  her  mother  was  instructed 


18  THE  ACCOLADE 

not  to  boast  of  her  attainments  —  in  any  direction  —  for 
security.  John's  mother's  next  remark  decided  her  she 
had  been  wise. 

"  Claude,  doesn't  Violet  play  ?  Make  her  play  just  one 
thing  to  us  before  she  goes." 

The  wordless  exchange  between  father  and  daughter 
made  it  clear  that  it  was  that  command  she  had  been 
awaiting,  while  she  sat  at  Johnny's  feet.  She  looked 
anxious  distinctly,  but  not  startled, —  she  had  been  warned 
well  in  advance.  At  least  her  so-called  authority  was 
not  the  kind  who  startled  and  exasperated  of  fixed  in- 
tent, as  Johnny's  did.  He  had  been  making  comparisons, 
of  course,  from  the  moment  when  he  had  begun  watching 
her.  The  results  were  much  the  same, —  but  the  method 
was  different. 

"Do  you  mind  not  standing  just  behind?"  the  child 
said  to  him  quick  and  low,  after  her  first  item.  "  It 
makes  me  so  nervous."  He  had  opened  the  instrument 
for  her,  and  remained  without  a  thought  to  watch,  be- 
cause he  was  curious.  He  nodded  at  the  request,  and 
strolled  back  to  Ursula. 

"  Good,"  he  informed  her  in  confidence.  Ursula  did 
not  reply,  sewing  steadily.  During  the  next  item,  which 
was  more  taxing,  needing  some  intellectual  grasp  as  well 
as  mechanism,  he  lay  beside  her  listening, —  really  listen- 
ing, as  Ursula  could  see  by  his  eyes.  She  had  often 
doubted,  for  all  his  airs  and  graces,  if  he  really  listened 
to  her. 

"  That's  beastly  good,"  he  said  softly  at  the  end. 
"Beastly  good,  that  is.  Mother!  Mother!  Make  it 
play  some  more." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will,"  he  said  quickly,  two  minutes  later, 
thinking  her  father  was  inclined  to  worry  her  unduly. 
"  You  jolly  well  will,  all  on  your  own,  because  nobody's 
going  to  hurt  you  if  you  don't.  Besides,  Father  will  be 
there  to  listen  to-morrow,  and  we're  none  of  us  abso- 
lutely in  it  for  awfulness,  compared  to  him," 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  19 

These  singular  arguments  succeeded,  or  else  the  tone 
did  in  which  they  were  spoken,  when  the  arguments  of 
mere  authority  would  have  failed.  Or  so  Johnny  flat- 
tered himself, —  he  may  have  been  wrong.  At  least  Vio- 
let played  to  him,  and  played  what  she  wanted,  "  on  her 
own." 

"  He  loves  it  so,"  his  mother  explained  to  her  guest, 
who  was  smiling,  "and  he  has  had  to  forgo  it  a  good 
deal." 

"  Chasing  another  art,"  suggested  Claude  Ashwin,  also 
aside.  "  What  about  his  acting,  Agatha  ?  Has  Ingestre 
cut  it  off?  Finally?" 

"  Finally,"  she  asserted,  but  gave  no  explanation,  and 
he  did  not  press  her.  After  a  few  minutes  she  added,  as 
though  she.  had  considered  the  addition,  consulted  with 
herself, — "  We  offered  him  a  compromise,  but  he  scouted 
it." 

"  Pish, —  yes,  so  he  would." 

"  You  sympathize  ?  "  asked  Agatha. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me.  I  have  no  facts."  He 
glanced  at  her,  in  his  medical  manner,  and  changed  the 
issue,  with  diplomatic  ease.  "  He's  got  a  voice  in  him, 
anyhow,"  he  suggested,  looking  towards  the  subject  of 
their  discussion,  as  he  leant  carelessly  on  the  piano. 
"  Surely  you  sing  still,  John, —  or  has  that  got  submerged 
as  well?" 

"  He  never  does,"  said  Ursula  from  her  corner :  the  only 
result  of  which  was,  to  turn  the  doctor's  active  attention 
upon  herself. 

"  Not  if  you  accompany?  Oh,  but  let  me  assure  you, 
you  will  find  no  man  satirize  wifely  knowledge  which 
takes  that  form." 

"Accompaniment?"  asked  Agatha. 

"  Supporting,  embellishing, —  er  —  titivating, " 

"  Concealing  deficiencies,"  called  Johnny.  "  Come  on, 
Ursula,  if  I've  got  to.  May  as  well  get  it  done." 

"  Miss  Ashwin  will  play  for  you,"  said  Ursula.     "  I  will 


20  THE  ACCOLADE 

attend,  since  that's  to  be  my  province  henceforward." 
She  matched  her  color,  and  took  a  new  needleful  of  silk 
with  care. 

"  Oh,  Lord,"  said  Johnny, —  murmured  rather.  Only 
Violet  heard.  She  rose,  shrinking  back  from  the  instru- 
ment. 

"  I  expect  I  must  go  to  bed,"  she  said.  She  was  a  little 
flushed  with  her  nervous  effort  past,  and  her  eyes  were 
seeking  safety  anywhere,  probably  in  flight. 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.  She  found  suddenly  that  he 
loomed  right  above  her,  and  that  she  had  retreated  into 
his  arms.  "  You  don't  go  to  bed,"  he  said,  gently  shov- 
ing her  back  upon  the  seat  again.  "  No  time, —  sit  there, 
you're  wanted.  You've  got  to  read  something  jolly  diffi- 
cult at  sight, —  d'you  mind  ?  "  She  looked  up  at  him 
anxious,  slightly  pleading:  then,  meeting  his  eyes,  hers 
changed.  Something  more  than  the  grace  of  humor 
united  them,  a  subtle  strand  of  the  kinship,  possibly:  or 
something  more  broadly  human  still. 

"  Not  really  dreadful,"  she  said  contentedly,  ceasing  to 
resist.  "  And  please,  don't  watch." 

"  I'm  going  right  out  there,"  said  Johnny,  pointing. 
"  Ever  so  far  away.  This  here's  my  show  piece,  or  used 
to  be.  If  you  make  a  muddle  of  it " 

"  I  won't, —  I  won't  spoil  it,  I  promise !  If  I  stop  or 
anything,  just  go  on." 

'*  Right,"  said  Johnny :  and  he  went  his  way. 

He  thought  no  more  at  all  about  her,  as  was  evident. 
He  could  not,  for  the  time  being,  afford  it,  since  he  had  to 
make  his  mark.  Johnny,  like  all  good  artists,  was  a 
fighter,  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  came  back  to  pri- 
vate life,  he  had  an  audience  worth  the  effort  of  assault. 
There  was  an  element  of  sheer  fun,  too,  in  knocking  over 
a  man  like  that  on  his  father's  hearth,  and  his  spirits, 
low  of  late,  were  improved  by  his  father's  absence.  He 
rather  thought  he  could  do  it,  if  he  tried.  Not  that  his 
"  show  piece  "  was  funny, —  far  from  it, —  it  was  calcu- 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  21 

lated  to  disturb  the  fringe  of  aunts.  But  he  chose  it  in 
caution,  since  he  was  well  outside  it,  owing  to  ancient 
practice:  and  further,  he  had  reason  to  hope  the  aunts 
had  gone  to  bed. 

So  he  spoke  to  them  once,  in  all  his  glory, —  gave  them 
a  taste  of  it,  such  as  they  were.  He  had  the  look,  in  his 
arrogant  young  splendor,  of  lifting  the  robe.  He  may 
have  meant  to  don  it  cynically,  disdainfully, —  the  critic 
thought, —  but  he  lost  himself  on  the  way.  His  inherited 
presence  was  splendid,  simply, —  so  dowered  he  held  the 
eye.  Music  it  was  not,  strictly  regarded,  he  merely  sa- 
luted, from  his  own  temple,  the  other  art.  His  voice,  not 
a  large  one,  was  attractive  extremely,  a  pretty  gift  in 
itself  had  he  cared  to  use  it  in  music's  cause.  But  he 
cared  for  nothing  to-night  but  to  get  his  effects  home  on 
all  and  sundry,  and  that  he  did,  sufficiently.  Even  his 
mother,  who  knew  his  powers  best,  was  surprised. 
Ursula's  mother,  who  did  not  know  them,  was  horror- 
struck.  Ursula  herself  was  slightly  uncomfortable,  and 
more  than  a  little  vexed. 

Why  had  she  not  known  ?  —  it  was  all  she  asked !  She 
hated  to  be  taken  by  surprise.  If  John  could  do  things 
like  that,  it  was  certainly  her  right  to  be  warned,  to  be 
given  the  inner  place.  He  had  no  business  to  take  her 
aback  with  them  in  front  of  strangers,  as  though  she  were 
audience  herself,  not  intimate.  The  feeling  of  grievance 
was  very  strong,  and  perfectly  defensible.  Not  but  what 
it  was  good,  probably,  granted  the  family, —  John  was 
clever,  that  she  had  always  known.  But  even  of  its 
worth,  she  was  not  quite  certain,  till  Dr.  Ashwin  spoke. 

When  Dr.  Ashwin  spoke,  it  was  to  praise,  with  a  vig- 
orous simplicity,  that  overturned  all  Johnny's  ideas  about 
him  again.  He  also  took  hold  of  the  little  girl,  by  her 
arms  below  the  elbows,  and  made  her  admire  him,  as  to 
which  matter  there  was  not  the  least  necessity.  Johnny 
could  get  himself  looked  up  to  by  little  females  without 
his  assistance,  and  get  himself  liked  as  well,  if  he  hap- 


22  THE  ACCOLADE 

pened  so  to  desire.  However,  he  was  civil  to  them, 
quietly  civil,  since  he  had  "  done  the  trick." 

"  Were  you  frightened  ? "  he  demanded,  as  the  child 
leant  back  against  her  father,  seemingly  most  content 
with  the  constraint  of  his  hands. 

"  Horribly,"  she  laughed,  "of  playing  wrongly.  Not 
of  you." 

"You  would  have  been,  if  you'd  looked  at  me.  Oh, 
yes,  you  would.  If  that  scene's  done  properly,  women 
faint  in  all  directions, —  so  I'm  told." 

"  Then  I'm  afraid "  She  slipped  a  mischievous 

glance  about  the  room.  John's  eyes  followed  hers.  The 
women  present  seemed  comfortable,  certainly.  Aunts 
had  evaporated.  Ursula's  head,  and  her  mother's,  were 
imperturbably  bent  above  their  needlework.  His  own 
mother,  her  hand  through  his  arm,  was  pale  and  tranquil, 
looking  really  happy  for  the  first  time  that  day. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  he  agreed.  "  Never  mind.  Some 
time,  you  and  me'll  have  a  go  at  them  again." 

After  that,  he  took  the  doctor  away  to  the  billiard 
room.  Ursula  was  cool  when  he  offered  good  night,  but 
he  did  not  lay  too  much  stress  on  it.  She  would  come 
round  of  her  own  accord :  or  he  could  fetch  her,  the  next 
morning. 

ii 

Dr.  Ashwin  left  the  next  day,  but  he  had  been  inter- 
ested in  the  Ingestre  household  during  the  short  period 
he  spent  beneath  their  roof, —  one  night.  Johnny  inter- 
ested him, —  Ursula  still  more  so.  The  boy,  to  his  eye, 
hardly  looked  happy :  the  girl  had  a  quite  remarkable  air 
of  settled  sufficiency  to  all  circumstances,  good  or  ill.  Yet 
he  thought,  of  the  two,  Ursula  was  the  more  deluded. 

Not  at  all  intentionally  on  John's  part.  He  was  being 
straight  with  her,  perfectly,  so  far  as  his  nature  permitted. 
But  he  was  suffering  himself  from  shock.  So  the  doctor 
calmly  diagnosed  it,  having  been  allowed,  once  or  twice 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  23 

across  the  billiard-table,  that  night,  to  see  his  eyes.  He, 
had  been  cut  off,  brought  up  in  full  tide,  really  baffled; 
the  doctor  did  not  care  to  see  such  a  look  on  a  young  face. 
Beyond  that,  he  had  been  tricked  through  his  affections, 
an  evil  thing,  and  dangerous.  His  devotion  to  his  mother 
was  undoubted,  and  he  had  let  her  sacrifice  him  to  his 
father's  iron  will. 

That  was  the  plain  fact, —  a  quicker  sense  than  Ursula's 
would  have  grasped  it,  reckoned  with  it  too.  But  she  did 
not,  the  least.  In  the  genial  calm  of  this  great  household 
which  greeted  her  betrothal,  she  did  not  recognize  a  mere 
ceremonious  shelving  of  a  habitual  difficulty,  the  lull  after 
long  storm.  Herself  on  the  little  pedestal  of  her  triumph, 
she  only  saw  the  Ingestres,  for  long  an  abstraction,  un- 
locking all  their  doors  to  her,  and  the  heir  of  all  their 
honors  at  her  feet.  John's  own  apathy,  thinly  disguised 
by  the  lover's  futilities,  she  misread  likewise ;  it  suited  her, 
—  she  had  evidently  not  guessed  how  far  from  apathetic 
his  nature  was.  He  idled  well,  fooled  with  her  agreeably, 
occasionally  he  went  further,  and  was  "  nice."  He  was 
not  "  sentimental,"  to  use  her  term,  and  she  was  glad  of  it. 
She  did  not  miss  anything  in  his  manner,  because  she  did 
not  really  desire  the  missing  thing.  His  sort, —  she 
classed  him  with  his  father, —  were  not  sentimental,  and 
it  was  better  so.  Their  dignity  and  hers  would  have 
suffered  by  the  exchange. 

Of  his  real  state  of  mind  she  saw  nothing, — the  recur- 
rent rage  of  mortification  for  his  broken  career.  Nor  did 
his  mother  see  all  of  it.  The  Ingestre  men  did  not  be- 
tray themselves  before  their  women,  habitually,  and 
Johnny  did  not  exhibit  his  defeat,  any  more  than  his  fa- 
ther exploited  his  triumph,  in  their  society.  Least  of  all 
did  Ursula  guess  that  she  herself  was  one  of  the  spoils  of 
victory,  though  the  steady  sun  of  favor  that  blessed  her 
from  headquarters  might  have  hinted  it  to  her  intelli- 
gence. Mr.  Ingestre  had,  in  making  a  clean  sweep  of  his 
son's  ambitions,  scored  the  daughter-in-law  of  his  desire 


24  THE  ACCOLADE 

by  the  way.  It  was  a  neat  stroke  of  policy,  showing  great 
penetration  of  his  puppets,  and  knowledge  of  the  game. 
Johnny  made  no  objection:  he  got  on  with  girls  easily, 
and  this  was  the  girl  for  him.  Marriage  was  the  readiest 
release  from  his  father's  chafing  rule,  it  would  give  him  a 
free  hand,  and  a  kingdom  of  his  own, —  there  was  no 
harm  in  it.  Only  he  was  flinching  now,  on  the  verge  of 
the  last  surrender,  shying  at  moments  from  a  prospect 
his  clear  mind  would  not  let  him  shirk.  He  was  not 
going  under  easy,  to  take  a  term  from  the  operating-thea- 
ter. He  was  not  the  kind  of  boy  to  do  so,  when  it  came 
to  the  point.  It  was  a  case  of  clear  mismanagement. 

All  this  Dr.  Ashwin  was  enabled  to  divine  during  a 
short  and  extremely  erratic  conversation  across  the  bil- 
liard-table after  midnight :  a  conversation  devoted  to  art, 
and  consisting  largely,  on  Johnny's  side,  of  objurgation. 
He  was  too  bold  and  too  young,  of  course,  to  confess  to 
flinching.  He  swore  at  the  billiard-balls, —  and  he  had 
full  reason  to  do  so, —  but  Dr.  Ashwin  imagined  some  of 
his  restless  wrath  originated  from  another  cause. 

However,  the  penetrating  doctor  left  the  next  day, — 
not  at  all  to  Johnny's  regret, —  he  did  not  care  for  him. 
He  was  the  kind  of  man  who  knew  too  much,  and  thought 
he  knew  everything.  The  seemingly  simple  questions  he 
asked,  combined  with  the  fearful  problems  he  set  at 
billiards,  needed  a  real  intellectual  effort  to  deal  with 
adequately.  They  had  spoiled  his  sleep.  The  child  was 
preferable,  and  she, —  as  it  appeared  when  he  reached  the 
breakfast-table,  very  late, —  was  to  be  left  behind. 

It  also  appeared  that  she  did  not  want  to  be, —  she  was 
shy  at  being  left  in  Johnny's  house,  under  his  rule,  and 
had  been  crying  about  it, —  bullied  beyond  a  doubt.  All 
kinds  of  things  had  been  happening  during  his  enforced 
absence  on  the  upper  floor.  Johnny  sat  down  opposite 
Violet,  relieved  Bert  of  his  responsibilities  concerning 
her,  and  proceeded  to  look  into  it,  at  his  leisure. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  25 

Further  up  the  table,  the  ladies  of  the  house  were  dis- 
cussing the  dance. 

The  dance  was  Ursula's  dance,  given  in  her  honor,  so 
by  rights,  of  course,  she  should  not  have  been  concerned 
in  its  arrangement.  Only  when  it  came  to  the  point,  she 
had  to  be.  Ursula  was  the  eldest  of  a  large  family,  and 
her  consequent  passion  for  management  triumphed,  not 
only  over  John's  easy  opportunism,  but  over  her  own 
sense  of  the  fitting,  which  was  keen.  She  did  not  want 
to  presume  before  her  time.  She  only  did  want  to  prove 
her  power,  now  and  again,  and  test  her  influence, —  meas- 
ure it  with  that  of  John's  mother,  as  it  grew. 

Ursula,  prepared  in  advance  to  find  John's  father  for- 
midable, found  his  mother  much  more  so,  privately.  She 
was  used  to  men,  and  dominant  men,  in  her  own  home 
surroundings :  it  had  been  part  of  her  training  to  humor 
them,  and  she  knew  their  ways.  Also,  Mr.  Ingestre  un- 
bent to  her  beautifully,  she  was  certain. she  would  have  no 
trouble  with  him.  Mrs.  Ingestre  was  different ;  she  ad- 
dressed Ursula  with  consideration,  while  she  looked  at 
her  with  equable  discerning  eyes,  sunken  a  little  since  her 
illness,  as  though  she  sought  in  the  girl's  handsome  fair 
exterior  more  than  the  eye  could  see.  A  persistent  slight 
suspicion  of  such  behavior,  led  Ursula  to  behave  towards 
"  Mother,"  as  she  called  her,  with  peculiar  care. 

The  difficulty  with  Ursula's  dance  was  the  usual  one  in 
country  places,  a  lack  of  men.  Both  Agatha  and  her  son 
were  engaged  in  luring  his  friends  from  their  haunts  in 
town  to  come  down  for  the  night  in  question, —  next  but 
two.  The  post  that  morning  had  brought  in  the  usual 
number  of  refusals,  or  rather  adroit  excuses,  from  bach- 
elors in  the  metropolis,  while  several  large  families  of 
girls  accepted  eagerly. 

"  Twenty-eight  to  thirty-seven,"  said  Ursula  seriously, 
scoring  her  neat  list.  "  I'm  afraid  there's  no  doubt  of  it, 
Mother.  No  — "  to  her  own  parent  — "  you  needn't  go 


26  THE  ACCOLADE 

through  that  again.  It's  right  as  I've  marked  it, —  nine 
short." 

"  Nine  short,"  mourned  Mrs.  Thynne  for  her  hostess. 
"That's  bad,  isn't  it?" 

"  We're  lop-sided,  no  hope  for  us,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre, 
with  her  air,  that  annoyed  Mrs.  Thynne,  of  being  su- 
perior to  all  such  minor  disturbances.  For  it  was  clear 
no  hostess  could  really  be  superior  to  the  fact  of  being 
nine  men  short,  for  a  dance.  The  pretense  was  absurd. 

Striving  to  be  serviceable,  Mrs.  Thynne  scoured  her 
capacious  mind  for  young  men,  and  mentioned  such  as 
occurred  to  her,  but  to  little  avail.  Ursula  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  grown  fastidious. 

"If  John  really  gave  his  mind  to  it  for  five  min- 
utes   "  she  observed. 

Johnny,  who  was  now  leaning  on  his  elbows  amid  the 
wreckage  of  his  breakfast,  conversing  privately  with  Bert 
and  the  Ashwin  child,  barely  looked  round.  "  I  have," 
he  contended,  "  weeks  ago.  My  mind  —  er  —  blossomed 
into  Bert,  and  Billy,  and  Buckley,  and  James,  and  a  man 
James  knows  at  Magdalen.  I  wrote  their  names  down  for 
Mother,  and  Mother  corrected  the  spelling  from  the 
Peerage  and  invited  them  all.  They're  all  coming.  So 
am  I."  He  relapsed  into  his  confidences. 

"  Five !  "  said  Ursula. 

"  I'm  a  host  in  myself,"  said  Johnny.  "  As  for  Bert, 
he's  a  Colossus.  Do  I  mean  that?  Who  was  the  fellow 
who  had  a  hundred  arms  ?  " 

He  appealed  to  Violet,  who  knew.  Bert  and  Johnny 
instantly  fell  on  her  for  knowing,  so  she  regretted  it. 

"  You  must  know  more  men  than  that,"  said  Ursula  to 
John's  back. 

But  on  the  contrary:  Johnny  knew  very  few  men, — 
respectable  men.  That  was  Ursula's  look-out.  He  had 
helped  Mother  lots  about  the  girls, —  weeding  them. 
Hadn't  he,  Mother  ? 

"  Well,  you'd  better  weed  a  few  more,  if  you  must  use 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  27 

such  horrid  expressions."  Speaking  with  the  same  com- 
petent calm,  Miss  Thynne's  eyes  passed  over  Violet. 
They  simply  swept  her  once:  but  Ursula's  glances  were 
to  the  point,  like  her  remarks.  Her  useful  mother,  atten- 
tive to  all  her  expressions,  caught  the  hint. 

As  soon  as  Violet,  silenced  if  not  defeated,  had  left 
the  table  in  her  father's  wake,  Mrs.  Thynne  took  up  the 
theme. 

"  I  suppose  the  little  girl  expects  to  dance,"  she  said. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre  surprised.  "  It  would  be 
a  little  hard  to  leave  her  out." 

"  Of  course  she  expects,"  said  Ursula  over  the  list. 
"  Didn't  you  notice  how  carefully  she  dodged  the  sub- 
ject with  her  father?" 

"Meaning  he'd  object?"  said  Johnny.  He  had  leant 
back  at  last,  and  turned  to  them. 

"  Well,  he  seemed  pretty  anxious  for  her  not  to  be 
tired,  didn't  he,  when  he  talked  of  driving  her  to  the 
town." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  we  could  get  him  to  put  his  foot  down, 
if  that's  all.  He's  the  kind  does  it  easy,  in  a  stamp. 
'Course  kids  are  in  the  way,"  proceeded  Johnny,  drawl- 
inff  agreeably.  "  Like  me  to  try  ?  " 

His  eyes  passed  Ursula,  and  lighted  on  his  mother. 
He  and  she  were  in  complete  agreement,  and  he  let  her 
know  the  pleasant  fact.  The  issue  was  simple,  fortu- 
nately. Violet  was  their  relation, —  Ursula  was  not,  at 
present.  There  was  no  question,  to  Johnny's  unbiased 
mind,  as  to  the  ill-manners  of  the  intervention. 

"  Oh,  look  here, —  rot !  "  Mr.  Bering's  little  bleat  was 
heard.  "  I  say,  Mrs.  Ingestre,  you  know  —  I'll  choke 
off  a  few  of  my  sisters,  sooner  than  that." 

"  Bert's  engaged  to  the  kid,"  said  Johnny  to  everybody. 
"  So  am  I." 

"  We  shall  not  trouble  you,  Bert,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre, 
smiling  as  she  rose.  "  We  want  all  your  sisters,  and 
Billy.  Thank  you,  dear, — "  she  accepted  the  paper  from 


28  THE  ACCOLADE 

Ursula.  "  I  will  go  and  consider  Johnny's  list  of  last 
resources,  and  he  can  try  some  telegrams  on  the  waverers. 
Will  you,  Johnny  ?  " 

"  Rather !  "  said  that  gentleman,  pleased.  Telegrams 
to  the  waverers  was  just  his  line, —  how  well  his  mother 
knew  him!  He  ran  his  hand  through  her  arm  as  she 
passed  him,  and  drew  her  out  with  him  on  to  the  terrace. 

"  Is  there  anything  in  it  ?  "  was  his  first  enquiry  when 
he  got  her  alone. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said.  "  Claude  leaves  all  decisions  for 
Violet  in  my  hands,  naturally.  I  shall  send  her  to  bed 
at  twelve,  if  necessary."  She  added  — "  Will  that 
do?" 

"  Rippingly,"  said  her  son.  "  That'll  settle  Ursula's  — 
er  —  maternal  scruples.  And  it'll  knock  out  Bert." 

"  I  hope  you  will  all  be  sensible  with  the  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Ingestre,  who  was  wise  enough  to  know  the  dan- 
gers. 

"  Oh,  Mother,  ducky !  —  if  you  can't  go  steady  at  that 
age!  Naturally,  we  leave  it  to  her." 

"  Bert  has  little  sisters,"  was  his  mother's  reply  to  this 
impertinence. 

"  If  you  think  that  gives  him  the  pull  of  me,"  said 
Johnny,  "  you're  wrong :  she  likes  me  best." 

"  She  thinks  you  are  very  nice.  She  told  her  father 
so." 

Johnny  observed  the  landscape  with  lifted  brows. 
"  You  see,"  he  resumed  after  a  pause,  in  the  tone  of 
propitiation,  "  chances  are,  she  can  dance.  She's  not  had 
time  to  forget,  and  nowadays  kids  are  taught,  and  that 
kid  would  be  taught  decently,  owing  to  circumstances. 
Confound  him." 

"  Don't  you~like  Claude?  "  said  Agatha. 

"  I  dislike  parents,  on  principle,"  said  Johnny,  sliding 
his  right  arm  completely  round  her. 

"  Wait  till  you  are  one,"  said  Agatha. 

He  was  silent  again,  till  they  reached  the  end  of  the 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  29 

terrace,  where  one  of  the  most  lovely  views  of  a  beauti- 
ful district  jumped  at  them,  and  he  brought  her  to  a  stand 
perforce.  He  watched  the  view  a  minute.  Then  his  eyes 
slipped  to  hers  in  his  sly,  shy  fashion  with  the  people  he 
liked. 

"What  are  you  after,  Mother?  Wanting  to  manage 
me, —  or  both  of  us  ?  Ursula  too  ?  " 

"  Nothing  further  from  my  thoughts,"  she  said,  with 
perfect  sincerity.  Indeed,  her  last  thought  was  to  inter- 
fere with  him,  where  Ursula  was  concerned. 

Johnny  steered  with  great  art  among  women,  a  gift 
inherited:  he  was  quick  in  apprehension  of  the  probable 
"  moves,"  on  the  feminine  side  of  the  social  game,  and 
equally  clever  at  flattering  or  foiling  them.  He  knew 
Ursula  so.  well  already :  it  amused  his  mother,  the  ease 
with  which  he  disposed  of  her, —  knowledgeably, —  for 
she  had  never  struck  Agatha  as  an  easy  character.  It 
would  need  all  his  wit  to  deal  with  her,  in  the  time  to 
come. 

"  Perhaps  she  really  wants  to  look  after  the  kiddy," 
he  murmured  after  an  interval.  "  She  doesn't  look 
strong." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  his  mother,  rather  gently. 
The  prospect  from  the  terrace,  shimmering  in  the  dreamy 
sunlight  of  an  October  morning,  was  miraculous  even  to 
Agatha's  accustomed  eyes.  She  had  been  ill,  lately,  a 
fact  which  lends  miracle  to  the  most  familiar  things. 
She  tried  to  see  the  future  in  the  mist:laden,  blue- 
drenched  beauty  of  the  distant  autumn  woodland,  John's 
future,  not  her  own.  She  dared  not  look  at  her  own 
beyond  a  certain  point,  owing  to  the  discretion  of  the 
doctors. 

"  Anyhow  I'll  see  to  it,  you  needn't  bother,"  his 
thoughts  ultimately  resolved  themselves,  as  his  slack  arm 
drew  tight  about  her.  Mrs.  Thynne  from  her  post  in 
the  break  fast- room  observed  their  promenade  together 
with  surprise.  Her  grown  sons  never  treated  her  like 


30  THE  ACCOLADE 

that, —  indeed  she  would  have  been  puzzled  to  know  what 
to  say  to  them  if  they  had. 

"  I'm  not  bothering,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  That  is, 
I'm  only  bothering,  as  usual,  why  Higham  Wood  up  there 
remains  yellow  to  my  intelligence,  while  my  eyes  tell  me 
it  is  blue." 

"  'Cause  you  know  it  is,"  suggested  Johnny.  He 
studied  the  far  horizon  a  minute,  motionless,  debating  the 
point.  "  Oh,  dash,"  he  ejaculated  after  an  interval.  "  It 
does  look  blue,  but  it  can't  be  really,  or  being  yellow,  it 
would  be  green.  And  it's  not  green,  anyhow.  Is  it, 
Mother  ?  "  He  shook  her. 

"  Blue,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre  calmly.  "  Azure, —  look  at 
it" 

"  Oh,  I've  looked,  ten  years  back, —  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
mix  my  mind!  It's  always  been  yellow, —  it's  a  beech- 
wood.  Dash !  "  said  Johnny  again.  "  Look  here,  we'll 
cut  across  there  riding  this  afternoon,  and  I'll  fetch  you 
a  leaf  to  look  at.  Bet  you  anything  it  won't  be  a  blue 
leaf.  Take  me,  Mother  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  I'll  take  you  in  reason.  But 
don't  go  too  far  out  of  your  way." 

"  Oh,  Ursula  likes  playing  about,"  said  Johnny,  easily. 
"  By  that  time,  she  will."  Agatha  had  small  doubt  of  it, 
but  she  did  not  encourage  him.  "  And  the  floor  of  the 
wood's  good  going  for  the  horses, —  clean,"  he  proceeded 
with  his  plans.  "  And  Rachel  will  let  me  stand  up  on  her 
back  to  pick  you  a  leaf,  at  least  she  will  if  Ursula  talks  to 
her,  and  distracts  her  young  mind.  Course  if  Rachel 
starts  at  a  rabbit,"  said  Johnny  with  pathos,  "  I'm  done. 
I'm  not  a  circus-rider, —  lots  of  rabbits  in  Higham  Wood. 
I  hope  she  won't  for  your  sake,  Mother, —  sake  of  your 
leaf,  I  mean." 

Mrs.  Ingestre  declined  to  be  affected:  she  alleged  that 
she  trusted  Ursula.  Whereupon  Johnny,  recovering,  said 
he  was  sick  of  talking  rubbish,  and  was  going  in.  She 
withheld  him  a  few  minutes  longer  from  his  duties  to 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  31 

learn  about  the  house-party,  the  threads  of  which  were 
in  his  hands,  since  the  majority  were  his  contemporaries. 
She  alluded  to  his  father  as  arriving  at  lunch-time.  In- 
stantly — 

"If  Father  wants  to  cut  into  the  ride,"  said  Johnny 
with  a  beautiful  scowl,  "  he  can't,  that's  all.  I've  ar- 
ranged it.  Ursula  prefers  riding,  remember,  Mother: 
I'm  going  to  see  she  prefers  it,  now." 

"  See,"  said  his  mother,  "  and  don't  get  excited.  And 
remember  yourself  that  what  Ursula  prefers,  this  side  her 
wedding,  is  done.  One  minute,  dear, —  when's  Jem  com- 
ing ?  Two  nights  then  ?  —  oh,  most  gracious !  " 

She  referred  to  her  son's  best  man,  and  closest  friend, 
and  at  the  reference  Johnny's  unpleasant  expression 
cleared  at  once.  James  Hertford  was  a  friend,  not  a 
follower  like  Bertram.  Johnny  knew  his  own  mind  pre- 
cisely in  that  matter  which  youth  in  general  regards  with 
such  astonishing  indifference,  the  choosing  of  friends. 
He  chose  at  ease,  entered,  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 
It  was  another  little  problem  her  radiant  future  held  for 
Ursula. 

Things  with  Ursula  were  not  quite  so  simple  as 
Johnny  thought,  which  doubtless  repaid  him  for  his  self- 
sufficiency. 

Ursula  was  sitting  sewing  things  for  her  own  wearing 
in  the  glass  bow  of  the  breakfast-room,  within  a  short 
tether  of  her  mother,  as  was  her  habit.  Ursula  was  any- 
thing but  a  new  kind  of  girl,  which  was  one  of  the  reasons 
why  the  Ingestre  men  liked  her.  A  woman's  hands 
always  look  beautiful  when  they  are  sewing,  and  there  is 
a  permanent  —  a  prehistoric  appeal  in  the  contented  sew- 
ing face.  What  can  be  done  with  that  patient  little  dart 
of  a  neddle !  —  it  is  a  symbol  of  the  plodding,  piece- 
meal way  in  which  women  attack  the  web  of  their  lives. 

Johnny  brought  a  sop  to  Ursula  in  the  news  of  Mrs. 
Qewer's  defection.  She  had  refused  the  dance  because 


32  THE  ACCOLADE 

his  mother  had  not  asked  her  last  Ambassador.  This  had 
distinctly  a  softening  effect, —  Ursula  smiled  and  said  she 
did  not  believe  it.  A  little  later  she  said  it  was  a  pity 
because  Mrs.  Clewer  looked  so  lovely  in  the  evening. 
Johnny  opined  that  it  was  a  pity,  because  Janie  could 
dance. 

"  I  believe  that's  all  you  think  about,"  said  Ursula. 

"  He's  no  heart,  really,"  said  Ursula's  mother,  in  a  tone 
like  hers,  but  a  little  more  so. 

Johnny  debated  these  charges.  "  I  haven't,  on  me,"  he 
said  to  Ursula's  mother,  a  reply  calculated  to  content  her, 
which  it  did.  A  little  wit  went  a  long  way  with  Ursula's 
mother,  but  he  had  to  consider  its  quality  with  care  before 
he  applied  it.  After  that  he  came  close  to  Ursula,  block- 
ing her  view  of  her  mother  completely,  and  proposed  a 
ride  in  the  afternoon,  ending  up  with  circus-tricks  on  the 
horses  in  Higham  Woods. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Ursula,  with  a  glance  at  the  blue 
woods  on  the  horizon,  which  she  could  see  from  where 
she  sat.  It  was  a  calculating  glance,  not  at  all  like  Mrs. 
Ingestre's,  when  she  had  looked  that  way. 

"  It's  not  going  to  rain,"  said  John,  in  natural  response 
to  it. 

"Rain!"  said  Ursula. 

"  Well,  you  shouldn't  go  looking  carefully  at  my  nice 
blue  sky.  Nobody  ever  does,  and  it's  not  used  to  it." 

"  It's  not  your  blue  sky,"  said  Ursula.  She  put  out  a 
hand  to  remove  him.  He  was  in  her  light. 

"  It  is.  I  got  it  for  you  on  purpose.  It's  even  been 
infecting  the  beech-leaves,  Mother  says." 

"  Infecting,"  said  Ursula ;  but  she  let  him  have  her 
hand.  "  I  was  only  wondering,"  she  said,  with  another 
glance  at  the  woods,  "  if  that  child  would  care  to  come 
with  us.  It  might  do  her  good." 

Johnny  opened  his  mouth.  "  What's  this  ?  "  he  thought, 
in  the  depths  of  his  being,  racking  his  brains.  Ursula 
certainly  took  some  following. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  33 

"  Her  father  didn't  want  her  to  be  tired,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Thynne,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reminder.  "  I  think 
she's  a  bit  of  a  cold." 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  said  Johnny  instantly. 

"  Mother  does,"  smiled  Ursula.  "  Her  father  only 
meant  late  hours,  and  so  on.  The  sun  will  do  her  good." 

"  I  can  perfectly  well  amuse  her  at  home,"  said  Mrs. 
Thynne,  maternally,  to  both  of  them. 

"  Well,  it's  just  as  John  likes,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Johnny.  He  scanned  the  Higham 
horizon  with  humorous  dark  eyes.  He  was  amused. 
What  the  deuce  could  she  be  at,  in  such  a  proposal?  It 
was  their  last  chance  of  a  tete-a-tete  ride,  for  days.  Pun- 
ishing him?  Simply  righting  herself,  in  his  eyes, —  or 
her  mother's, —  or  her  own  ?  A  queer  instinct,  feminine, 
no  doubt.  Or  could  she  really  want  the  child?  —  not 
possible.  Johnny  knew,  by  a  beautiful  instinct  we  will 
not  defend,  that  Ursula  wanted  him,  and  him  alone,  for 
the  space  of  that  autumn  day. 

Well  then,  he  might  have  fallen  in  with  the  desire,  which 
matched  his  own.  He  might,  sweeping  the  sewing  and 
the  subterfuges  aside,  say  — "  Oh,  rot !  " —  and  seize 
Ursula's  hands.  So  he  would  have  done,  if  her  mother 
had  not  been  there,  or  if  his  own  mother  had  been.  His 
mother  knew  nothing  of  such  crab-like  proceedings.  But 
Ursula's  mother,  or  something  of  her  in  Ursula,  inspired 
Johnny  to  be  crab-like  also, —  crabbier  indeed, —  even 
more  crabbed.  He  could  be,  at  need. 

A  second  course  open  to  him  was  to  give  the  message  to 
Violet,  and  get  her  to  refuse,  which  would  be  quite  simple 
as  it  was  highly  improbable  she  would  want  to  come.  He 
could  manage  that  with  the  smallest  possible  exertion,  and 
leave  Violet  to  be  —  amused  by  Mrs.  Thynne.  Oh,  Lord ! 
—  he  reconsidered. 

His  third  course  was  what  he  did,  as  soon  as  he  thought 
of  it.  He  turned  about.  "  Markham,"  he  said,  with  pas- 
sion. "  You  know  everything." 


34  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Markham,  repressively. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  at  this  instant,  where,  in  earth,  or 
sky,  or  water,  Miss  Ashwin  is  ?  " 

"  Miss  Violet  is  helping  the  doctor  to  pack,  sir,"  said 
Markham,  folding  the  cloth. 

"  The  deuce  she  is.  Well,  tell  her  to  drop  it,  would 
you,  and  come  to  me." 

Miss  Violet  was  fetched, —  not,  of  course,  by  Markham. 
She  colored  pink  at  the  proposal,  and  looked  her  protest, 
in  Johnny's  direction,  just  as  he  expected. 

"  Miss  Thynne's  idea,"  said  Johnny  pleasantly,  looking 
back.  He  thought  her  like  Alice  in  Wonderland.  So, 
oddly  enough,  did  Bert.  Her  eyes  were  like  that, —  her 
hair  was  otherwise.  "  She  thinks  it  would  be  good  for 
you, —  jolly  for  you,  I  mean." 

"  I  think,"  hesitated  Violet,  "  that  Cousin  Agatha " 

"  Mother  lies  down  in  the  afternoon,"  said  Ursula  at 
once.  "  I  should  think  you'd  be  better  for  some  exercise, 
—  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Wouldn't  you  ?  "  echoed  Johnny  attentively.  "  Just 
as  you  like." 

Well,  that  finished  her.  She  did  not  believe  they  really 
wanted  her,  of  course,  not  for  a  moment.  But  after  a 
puzzled  pause,  balancing  all  the  precedents  of  her  pro- 
longed existence,  like  a  proper  little  girl,  she  accepted 
Miss  Thynne,  thanked  her,  and  so  came. 

John,  thinking  with  her,  had  come  to  the  same  conclu- 
sion, that  it  was  the  only  thing  she  could  do.  And  she 
did  it  in  the  form,  nicely.  He  rather  wondered  if  he 
owed  her  an  apology. 

"  You  are  a  pawn,  darling,"  he  said  later.  "  Do  you 
know  what  a  pawn  is  ?  " 

"Chess?"  said  Violet. 

They  were  waiting  for  Ursula  in  the  sun-bath  on  the 
drive  at  two  o'clock.  He  and  she  were  alone,  in  the 
company  of  the  horses,  Rachel,  the  beloved  of  Johnny's 
heart,  and  Sabra  and  Sylvie,  introduced  merely  as  "  nice 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  35 

girls."  A  tactful  young  groom,  who  had  offered  himself, 
had  been  refused  with  an  arrogant  brusquerie,  on  Mr. 
John's  part,  approaching  to  rudeness.  He  was  not  going 
to  let  his  cousin  Violet  ride  with  a  groom  on  this  occasion, 
—  likely !  They  would  be  a  trois,  since  Ursula  desired  it. 
Very  much  so. 

Johnny  was  moody  a  trifle,  because  his  father  had 
returned.  His  father,  in  the  course  of  lunch,  had  already 
disturbed  several  of  his  best  arrangements,  on  purpose ; 
his  mother  looked  worried  again,  and  things  in  general 
were  going  to  pot.  It  was  his  father  who  was  delaying 
Ursula  now,  keeping  her  flirting  with  him  in  the  hall. 
Flirting  was  the  word.  Ursula  was  a  punctual  girl,  by 
nature. 

"  Isn't  it  heavenly?"  said  Violet,  as  he  mounted  her. 

"  It  is,"  said  Johnny,  and  held  her  little  foot  for  a 
moment. 

He  waited  a  little ;  then  flung  himself  into  the  saddle, 
somewhat  to  his  Rachel's  surprise.  Not  much, —  she  was 
as  used  to  him  as  Markham  and  the  rest  of  the  household. 
He  sat  for  a  time  looking  about  him  from  the  upper  level. 
Heavenly  it  was, —  no  weather  in  the  year's  length  like  it. 
Shot  blue  and  gold,  touched  with  melting,  maddening 
odors  from  the  drenched  dead  woodland  of  oak  and 
beech  for  miles  around.  His  father  could  mount  Ursula, 
— »he  had  more  than  a  mind  to  start,  more  than  half  a 
mind.  He  was  sure  the  kid  wanted  to  be  in  the  woods 
as  much  as  he  did.  He  looked  at  her  sitting  Sylvie  de- 
murely, with  her  lashes  dropped.  She  was  a  good  kid, 
awfully  well  brought-up,  but  there  were  possibilities  — 
oh  yes.  He  would  not  answer  for  her  behavior,  after 
a  gallop  across  the  common  at  his  side.  She  was 
young.  .  .  . 

"  Can  I  get  to  be  a  Queen  ?  "  she  asked,  in  reply  to  his 
sudden  remark  about  the  pawn. 

"If  you're  good,"  said  Johnny  impressively.  "  I,"  he 
proceeded  presently,  "  am  a  Knight." 


36  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Don't  fall  off,"  said  Violet.  Her  knowledge  of  the 
game,  needless  to  say,  hailed  from  an  impeccable  authority. 

"  You  don't  catch  me,"  said  her  cousin.  "  No  one  can 
catch  me  anyhow,  being  a  Knight.  Do  you  know  the 
Knight's  move,  Violet?  It's  an  exceedingly  dodge-ful 
one." 

"  You  can  be  taken,"  said  Violet  gravely. 

"  Married,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No, —  taken.     By  anyone,  in  the  game." 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Johnny.  "  Not  by  anyone,  any- 
where. I'm  too  dodge-ful,  by  a  lot."  His  tone  was  such 
that  she  could  not  argue  it. 

"  I  suppose  your  father  is  a  Castle,"  she  said,  after  an 
interval. 

"  All  you  know,"  said  Johnny,  grinning.  "  Father's  as 
dodge-ful  as  I  am, —  all  but.  I  get  it  from  him." 

"  Is  he  a  Knight,  then  ?  —  he  can't  be,  he's  too  old.  He 
must  be  a  King." 

"  No,  he  isn't,  because  you  can't  check  him,"  explained 
Johnny.  "  If  anybody  had  ever  been  able  to  check 
Father, —  I  should  not  be  here." 

"  I  suppose  Miss  Thynne  is  a  Queen,"  said  Violet,  after 
a  pause  of  regarding  him.  She  had  not  asked  where  he 
would  be,  in  that  case. 

"  She  may  be,"  answered  Johnny,  "  one  of  these  days. 
She's  a  bit  further  on  than  you."  He  patted  Rachel,  look- 
ing wicked. 

"  But  — "  she  turned  on  him  scandalized  — "  she  can't 
be  only  a " 

"  Course  she  can't,"  said  Johnny  soothingly.  "  Look  at 
her, —  there  she  is." 

Johnny's  other  goddess  arose  in  the  magic  of  the 
autumn  beech-woods, —  he  might  have  known  she  would : 
altering  all  values,  thrusting  love-making  and  Ursula 
temporarily  into  the  background,  and  bringing  the 
friendly  little  girl,  just  as  surely  as  music  brought  her,  to 
his  side. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  37 

It  was  entirely  Ursula's  fault  that  it  was  so,  that  Violet 
was  there,  to  begin  with,  so  disturbing  a  presence,  incon- 
clusive like  all  youthful  things,  sweet  to  see  and  to  hold, 
—  or  to  attempt  to  hold.  Because,  being  so  much  the 
lightest,  it  was  naturally  she  who  did  the  circus-trick,  and 
mounted  Johnny's  Rachel,  while  Rachel,  perfectly  con- 
tented with  the  temporary  exchange,  snuffed  at  all  his 
pockets,  and  nuzzled  in  his  hands.  Neither  hands  nor 
pockets  held  anything,  but  she  nuzzled  his  thin  brown 
hands  for  love  of  him,  while  she  performed  his  will  by 
standing  quiet,  amid  strange  scents  and  exciting  shadows, 
under  the  shimmering  arch  of  leaves.  Rachel  was  young, 
like  Violet :  but  she  had  faced  calmly,  owing  to  her  faith 
in  him,  even  stranger  circumstances. 

"  Good  girl,"  said  Johnny,  putting  an  arm  suddenly 
across  her  neck. 

"  Do  be  careful,  John ! "  said  Ursula  irritably :  and  at 
once  the  creature  started,  as  she  had  not  for  John. 
Could  it  be  ?  Rachel  felt  Ursula  without  the  magic  circle 
too. 

"  Don't  break  the  trees  about,"  said  Johnny  mechani- 
cally, looking  upward.  But  he  knew  the  child  would  not. 
She  cut  the  twigs  of  golden  leaves  he  wanted  for  his 
mother  neatly  and  swiftly,  just  as  he  would  have  done 
himself,  the  finger-tips  of  her  right  hand  extended  to  the 
beech-trunk  for  support.  But  she  hardly  needed  it.  Of 
course,  he  reflected  once,  she  would  dance  delightfully, 
made  like  that.  Only  once,  reaching  to  an  outer  branch, 
she  laid  her  left  hand  for  balance  on  his  head.  It  thrilled 
John,  very  oddly:  and  he  held  her  a  minute  in  his  arms 
before  he  lifted  her  down.  Exactly  so  he  had  seen  her 
father  clasp  her  at  parting, —  not  otherwise. 

It  seemed  simply  profanity  to  him,  at  that  moment,  that 
Ursula,  his  wife  to  be,  could  even  for  an  instant  mistake 
his  proceeding  in  doing  so.  It  outraged  the  real  Johnny, 
jarred  a  true  instinct  of  his  fathers,  that  had  sprung  dur- 
ing that  brief  interlude  to  life.  He  was  amazed  at  the 


38  THE  ACCOLADE 

tumult  of  revolt  it  caused  him, —  granted  it  was  the  case. 
He  glanced  at  Ursula,  a  moment  too  late  to  be  certain. 
She  was  seated,  fair  and  serious,  on  Sabra,  holding 
Sylvie's  bridle,  waiting  merely,  apparently  content.  She 
was  just  as  she  should  be,  exactly,  except  that  the  magic 
circle  stopped  at  her.  Yet,  of  the  group  of  three,  she 
should  have  been  the  most  surely  within  it.  Surely! 

—  No,  he  was  not  amused,  no  longer  amused,  that  was 
what  it  came  to.  He  would  have  to  urge  Rachel  outside 
the  magic  ring  of  art,  the  youth  which  matches  it,  the 
aged,  irrefutable  truths  of  the  woodland,  before  he  could 
be  amused  at  women's  pettiness  again.  He  did  not,  for 
the  instant,  believe  such  limitation  desirable : —  even 
though  it  was  purely  flattering  to  him. 

Ursula  said  that  she  supposed  they  had  better  be  going. 

"Why?  "said  Johnny. 

Ursula  replied,  very  sensibly,  that  they  had  all  the 
leaves  they  could  carry,  and  that  they  must  have  good 
light  for  getting  across  the  fields.  She  added  that  it 
would  be  getting  damp  before  they  reached  the  Hall,  and 
that  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  linger,  owing  to  Violet's 
cold.  She  was  determined  that  Violet  should  have  a 
cold,  no  doubt  for  her  mother's  credit.  Violet,  when 
pressed,  admitted  to  having  a  little  one. 

"  Dancing'll  cure  it,  darling,"  said  Johnny,  absently. 

Ursula  was  not  pleased.  They  did  not  talk  much  on 
the  homeward  way.  The  scenery  was  very  beautiful. 

Things  went  from  bad  to  worse  after  that.  It  was 
again  amusing  at  intervals,  but  not  exceedingly.  Of 
course  the  houseful  of  "  lads,"  regardless  of  Johnny's 
severity  with  them,  spoiled  the  infant.  Ursula  ought  to 
have  had  the  sense  to  know  they  would.  Johnny's  mother 
had  had  the  sense,  before  they  came.  They  gave  Miss 
Thynne  her  dues  at  intervals,  as  they  thought,  but  she 
was  Johnny's  property.  That  was  the  bother  of  it.  He, 
and  he  alone,  was  bound  to  pull  things  straight. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  39 

James  Hertford  was  the  worst  offender.  James  said 
Violet  was  clever,  which  had  not  struck  either  Johnny  or 
Bert  before.  It  was  rather  a  trial  for  them,  but  they 
admitted  Jemmy  ought  to  know.  He  was  a  very,  very 
smart  young  man  from  Oxford,  engaged  in  appropriately 
opening  a  brilliant  public  career.  Mr.  Ingestre  liked 
talking  to  him,  which  was  all  to  the  good,  since  it  gave 
John  a  breathing  space  to  attend  to  Ursula.  His  father's 
way  of  snatching  Ursula  and  exalting  her,  ostentatiously, 
annoyed  Johnny.  He  was  sufficient  in  himself  to  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  did  not  require,  at  his  age,  to  be  shown 
how  to  do  the  trick. 

James  happened  upon  Violet  at  luncheon,  sitting  at  his 
side.  Having  discovered,  he  need  not  have  noticed  her, 
but  he  did,  satirically.  "  Comin'  to  the  dance  ? "  he 
drawled.  "Got  any  left?  Might  spare  me  one  if  you 
have." 

This  struck  his  neighbors  as  amusing,  and  a  certain 
number  attended. 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  dancing,"  said  Violet,  shrinking  a 
little  at  so  many  eyes.  She  had  Miss  Thynne's  eyes  as 
well,  as  soon  as  she  said  it. 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  protested  Mr.  Hertford.  "  Why's  that? 
Getting  past  it  ?  " 

"  Youthful  follies,"  said  another  wit.  "  Women  are  so 
serious  nowadays." 

"  It's  only  they're  so  numerous,"  said  Violet. 

"  Hey  ?  —  what's  that  ?  "  Young  Hertford,  catching  a 
spark  from  his  host  on  the  way,  leant  down.  "  Too  many 
of  them  ?  Can't  be  too  many,  can  there,  Johnny  ?  Think 
we're  afraid  of  numbers,  Miss  —  er  —  Ashwin?" 

"  No.     But  you  can't  dance  with  two  at  once." 

"  Wish  I  could,"  ventured  Mr.  Bering,  in  the  pause  that 
followed  this  unanswerable  statement. 

"  So  does  my  mother,"  said  Johnny.  "  It's  a  fact  there 
aren't  enough  of  you  fellows  to  go  round.  May  as  well 
be  warned  in  time,  so  as  to  keep  the  price  up." 


40  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  But  you'll  give  me  one,  all  the  same,"  said  Jem  to 
Violet,  when  this  point  had  been  dealt  with.  "  Oh  yes, 
you  will.  Sit  down  if  you  like, —  we  old  ones  will  quiz 
the  company.  Come  now,  say  which."  He  laid  his 
dance-program  on  the  table  in  front  of  him,  and  she 
glanced  down  the  half-filled  list. 

"  It's  no  good,"  she  said  gravely.  "  I  am  engaged  those 
three,  and  I  go  to  bed  there."  She  spaced  the  three 
clearly,  and  touched  the  sixth  number  with  one  fine  little 
finger.  "  I  am  sorry,"  she  added,  looking  up  at  him. 

"  Ripping,  ain't  she  ?  "  said  Mr.  Hertford,  far  too  loud, 
in  another  direction.  "  Ripping  form.  I'm  going  to  get 
one,  dashed  if  I  don't." 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,"  advised  Johnny. 

"  What  d'you  stick  me  in  such  company  for,  then  ? " 
argued  James;  and  proceeded  to  devote  the  whole  of  his 
elaborate  mind  to  Violet's  single  entertainment. 

It  was  unfortunate,  because  when  young  Hertford 
really  talked,  everybody  was  bound  to  attend  to  him. 
There  was  an  Oxford  glow  about  James,  mellow,  as  it 
were,  from  the  Magdalen  cellars,  that  even  Johnny  could 
not  equal.  He  did  not  want  to  equal  it.  James  in  com- 
mon life,  behind  scenes,  was  excellent  company :  but 
James  when  he  played  to  the  public  ear  was  an  ass.  It 
was  not  his  fault  really,  since  he  was  in  training  to  go 
into  Parliament.  But  even  that  was  an  asinine  object, 
when  you  came  to  think  about  it.  James  "  represented 
a  class,"  as  Mrs.  Clewer  said,  like  Bertram ;  but  nobody 
wanted  either  of  them,  really.  Except  Johnny,  who 
wanted  both. 

Things  reached  the  breaking-point,  and  Johnny  de- 
cided. 

The  occasion  would  be  spoiled  for  somebody,  and  it 
could  not  be  Ursula,  because  it  was  her  dance,  and  she 
was  in  the  forefront.  It  could  not  be  himself  for  — plenty 
of  reasons.  He  was  in  the  forefront  too.  Something 
had  got  to  go;  and  pawns,  though  far  from  negligible  to 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  41 

the  good  player,  may  generally  be  sacrificed  at  a 
pinch. 

Besides,  the  kid  had  a  cold.  Even  his  own  mother, 
urged  by  Ursula,  said  so,  though  she  made  light  of  it. 
Johnny  weighed  all  the  chances,  with  considerable  enjoy- 
ment, during  the  night  preceding  the  dance,  and  adopted 
a  Knight's  move;  a  Knight's  move  lengthwise,  so  that  he 
might  get  in  front  of  Ursula,  whose  feminine  pawn-steps 
were  necessarily  cautious.  The  simile  was  most  apt. 

"  I'm  beastly  sorry,  darling,"  said  Johnny,  with  deep 
commiseration,  in  his  mother's  little  private  room.  "  Ur- 
sula says  you've  got  a  beastly  cold." 

"  Not  a  bad  one,"  said  Violet.  She  looked  question- 
ing. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  the  least  surprised,"  said  Johnny,  falling 
into  a  chair  exactly  facing  her,  "  if  it  got  worse.  Much 
worse,  before  the  evening.  My  cold.  Do  you  mind  ?  " 

Violet  explored  his  face.  He  was  a  truly  amazing 
person,  unusual,  but  charming  too.  She  quite  saw  why 
the  horses  and  so  on  liked  him  so.  He  knew  what  he 
wanted  so  exactly,  and  made  his  desires  so  particularly 
clear.  It  might,  of  course,  be  his  training  as  his  mother's 
only  son.  His  forehead  was  slightly  knitted  now,  but  his 
eyes,  as  usual,  were  confident.  It  was  a  relief  to  people 
in  spiritual  or  social  difficulties  even  to  be  faced  with 
such  as  Johnny. 

He  offered  her  a  clear  solution  for  a  problem  that  had 
become  too  much  for  her.  Violet  was  a  nice  little  girl. 
She  was  chiefly  anxious,  as  children  of  her  age  are,  to  do 
the  right  thing.  She  was  aware  of  not  having  done  this, 
from  Miss  Thynne's  point  of  view,  over  the  music  the 
first  evening:  but  then  her  father  had  been  backing  her. 
Now  the  guide  she  trusted  utterly  in  life  had  deserted 
her,  with  a  very  simple  warning  to  be  useful  to  her 
hostess,  and  not  to  get  in  the  way.  This  was  obviously 
Miss  Thynne's  desire  also,  as  it  was  Violet's, —  only  she 
did  like  dancing.  That  was  her  simple  position. 


42  THE  ACCOLADE 

Urged  by  Miss  Thynne,  she  had  been  considering  her 
cold:  but  her  life's  education  was  against  the  exaggera- 
tion of  colds,  brought  up  as  she  had  been  in  a  medical 
household.  To  have  her  own  cold,  to  prevent  her  get- 
ting in  Miss  Thynne's  way  at  the  dance,  would  have 
worried  her  exceedingly.  Her  father  might  hear  of  it. 
To  have  her  cousin  John's  cold  was  so  simple.  His  cold 
could  be  posed  about  to  any  extent.  She  saw  it  at  once. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  will  if  you  like,"  she  said  shyly. 

"  My  colds,"  said  Johnny,  leaning  back,  "  have  com- 
plication towards  evening  of  a  really  frightful  descrip- 
tion. You  ask  Mother, —  she  won't  have  forgotten.  I 
often  wonder  I  never  died  of  them  in  my  extreme  youth. 
The  first  signs " 

"Yes?"  said  Violet. 

"  Were  sinister.  I  think  that's  the  word.  Not  fever, 
of  course,  precisely " 

"  No,"  said  Violet,  "  because  of  the  thermometer." 

"  Things  can  be  done  with  it,"  said  Johnny.  "  How- 
ever, we  won't  stop  over  that.  Feeling  awful  by  degrees 
is  the  kind  of  thing  anybody  can  do.  By  slow  degrees, 
mind.  Not  at  a  moment's  notice,  or  they'll  think  it's  a 
fit  and  stand  round  expecting  symptoms.  I  have  done 
that " 

"  Have  you  ?  "  said  Violet. 

"  For  stage  purposes.  Only  for  the  stage.  Once,  I 

had  a  seizure "  he  paused.  "  I  deserved  it,  though. 

My  past  life  had  been  such  as  you  can't  think.  I  never 
bothered  Mother  with  that,  though, —  might  have  scared 
her.  The  kind  of  thing  I  did  for  home  consumption  was 
easier,  much.  Mother  found  me  out  nine  times  out  of 
ten  in  my  diseases:  but  even  she  thought  well  of  my  — 
er  —  culminating  colds.  They  culminated  splendidly.  I 
pretty  nearly  always  brought  them  off." 

"  Did  you  have  them  at  school  ?  "  asked  Violet. 

"  Not  so  often.  Mother  warned  the  women  there,  and 
they  —  er  —  took  me  in  time." 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  43 

"Didn't  she?"  asked  Violet. 

"  Not  if  I  was  careful.  I  got  in  first.  It  takes  prac- 
tice." 

"  Do  they  hurt  ?  "  asked  Violet,  after  an  interval. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Johnny,  surprised.  "  Rather  soothing 
than  otherwise,  or  I  should  never  expect  you  to  have  one." 

He  held  out  a  hand  to  her.  It  struck  him  that  she 
was  not  extremely  well.  At  least  she  was  relieved  to  be 
clear  of  debating  and  to  be  taken  in  hand.  By  rights, 
perhaps, —  by  the  code, —  he  should  have  done  it  sooner. 
The  code  of  common  friendship  applied  to  her,  he  be- 
lieved. 

"  Won't  your  mother  find  out  ?  "  she  asked  simply. 

"  Probably,"  said  Johnny,  with  emphasis,  and  paused. 
"  But  then  she  won't  write  home  and  tell  about  you," 
he  mentioned.  "  So  it's  all  to  the  good." 

"  Oh  no, —  I  hope  she  won't."  She  looked  alarmed : 
Johnny  smiled. 

"  I'll  see  she  doesn't,"  he  said.  "  You  sit  tight,—  I'll 
look  after  it."  He  talked  a  little  more,  for  his  amuse- 
ment, not  for  long,  because  there  was  no  need.  Clever 
or  no,  her  intelligence  suited  his,  and  they  were  in  sym- 
pathy. He  would  explain  to  the  lads,  he  said,  when  she 
asked  him.  Unless  she  preferred  to  have  a  few  of  them 
upstairs  to  sit  out  with  her :  that  could  be  managed  easily. 

"Mightn't  they  catch  it?"  Violet  objected. 

"  Don't  you  want  'em  ? "  said  Johnny.  "  Bert'll  be 
beastly  disappointed."  He  was  her  host  for  the  minute, 
—  then  he  changed  his  nature.  "  Jemmy'll  get  over  it, 
he's  other  fish  to  fry.  He  came  here  for  the  purpose. 
Personally  — "  he  paused,  deeply  cogitating, — "  I've  lots 
to  do." 

"  Of  course  you  have,"  said  Violet,  coloring. 

"  I've  eight  dances,"  said  Johnny,  "  with  Miss  Thynne 
alone:  and  the  nine  over, —  the  nine  extra  ones, —  the 
nine  odd  women, —  will  lead  me  a  life,  for  certain."  His 
brow  corrugated.  He  was  plunged  in  teasing  thought. 


44  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  man,"  said  Violet. 

"  Then  you  could  help,"  suggested  Johnny.  He  looked 
at  her  a  minute.  "  No,"  he  determined  at  leisure,  "  you're 
best  as  you  are.  That's  the  fact.  You  sit  tight,  and 
you'll  see  I'll  solve  it,  without  any  such  strong  measures.'' 
He-  regarded  her  again.  "  I'm  sorry  about  this,  my  little 
girl,"  he  said.  "  I'd  like  to  dance  with  you.  See  that  ?  " 
She  saw  with  a  nod :  that  was  the  host.  "  And  I  don't 
break  engagements,  on  this  earth,  unless  I  must.  She 
nodded  again.  That  was  just  the  family.  "  But  I  don't," 
said  Johnny,  becoming  himself,  and  burying  his  head  in 
the  cushions,  "  want  to  catch  a  culminating  cold,  because 
Ursula  would  be  anxious  about  me.  She  wouldn't  think 
of  letting  me,  probably.  Oh,  Lord ! "  He  hid  his  face 
motionless  for  a  moment.  Then  he  started  up. 

"  But  I  can't"  he  ejaculated,  smashing  his  fist  into  the 
other  palm,  "  because  it's  my  own  cold !  Catch  your  own 
cold, —  it's  a  medical  impossibility.  Gosh!  —  done  it!  — 
I  shall  tell  her." 

He  went  away  to  do  so. 

Johnny's  last  interview  before  Ursula's  dance, —  which 
was  an  immense  success, —  was  a  stiff  one,  because  com- 
plicated. He  had  to  put  it  off  a  bit,  what  with  the  house- 
ful of  "  lads,"  and  his  father  bothering.  He  might  have 
known  the  day  would  get  crowded,  as  it  went  on.  How- 
ever, he  tackled  it  in  the  end. 

"  Oh,  poor  little  thing !  "  said  Ursula. 

Johnny  could  not  think  why  that  exclamation  annoyed 
him  so.  It  came  too  late.  .  .  .  Owing  to  being  crowded 
and  so  on,  he  was  not  in  a  very -nice  mood  internally, 
inclined  to  trampling, —  to  trample  at  large.  His  servant 
Blandy  had  discovered  it  already,  before  Ursula  came. 
Ursula  herself  was  in  some  danger.  Then  his  mother, 
looking  rather  delicate  in  black  lace,  turned  up  in  Ursula's 
wake.  Johnny  had  both  his  women,  and  so  the  balance  of 
life  was  preserved. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  45 

"  I  didn't  quite  like  the  look  of  her  this  morning,"  said 
Ursula. 

"  I'd  an  idea  you  didn't,  darling,"  said  Johnny  with 
sympathy.  "  One  to  you." 

"  I  even  mentioned  it  to  Mother,"  said  Ursula. 
"But " 

"Just  so,"  said  Johnny. 

Ursula  was  looking  her  best,  better  than  her  best,  since 
she  was  unusually  excited ;  and  she  was  dressed  up  to  the 
nines,  quite  rippingly,  in  pale  blue  silk.  This  conference, 
it  had  better  be  hastily  confessed,  lest  with  an  inadvertent 
reference  we  might  offend  our  readers,  took  place  in 
Johnny's  dressing-room.  If  there  should  arise  an  instant 
outcry  to  demand  how  Miss  Thynne  got  there,  we  can 
only  repeat  that  the  dressing-room  was  Johnny's.  It  was 
no  fault  of  his.  Since  the  women  insisted  on  crowding 
him  up,  even  in  his  private  apartment,  he  resigned  him- 
self, and  dismissed  his  attendant.  Not  that  he  did  not 
want  Blandy, —  he  was  half-dressed.  It  was  singular 
how  he  was  fated  to  see  to  everything  to-night,  even  the 
most  essential  things,  single-handed. 

"  John, —  do  you  mind  ?  "  said  Ursula,  tapping  the  door. 

"  You  can  go,  Blandy,"  said  Johnny  to  his  slave.  "  Sit 
down,  Ursula.  This  is  very  jolly." 

"  Don't  be  absurd,"  said  Ursula,  smiling.  "  And  don't 
tell  Mother,  for  goodness'  sake." 

"  Don't  tell  her  mother,  for  goodness'  sake,"  pleaded 
Johnny  with  his  own  mother,  who  turned  up  two  minutes 
afterwards. 

Ursula  had  come,  with  the  best  excuse,  about  some 
flowers.  John  and  his  father  had  each  given  her  beauti- 
ful flowers,  and  she  particularly  wished  to  do  the  proper 
thing.  Johnny  helped  her  with  advice  on  the  subject,  and 
reduced  her  to  laughter  very  soon.  She  was  really  ex- 
cited, a  little  beyond  herself,  or  she  would  never  have 
thought  of  her  present  proceeding.  But  he  would  not 
give  her  the  plain  answer  she  wanted.  He  was  tiresome. 


46  THE  ACCOLADE 

Johnny's  mother  came  with  a  message,  or  rather  a 
remark,  from  his  father  about  the  wine.  Mrs.  Ingestre 
translated  it.  Johnny  replied  with  another  remark, —  a 
real  quencher, —  had  there  been  any  hope  his  mother 
would  convey  it  correctly.  He  settled  that  matter  in  no 
time, —  it  was  shorter  than  Ursula's.  It  was  really  stimu- 
lating to  be  so  universally  in  demand  as  he  was  this  eve- 
ning :  but  it  did  not  excite  him,  the  contrary.  It  soothed 
his  restlessness,  and  rendered  him  supremely  calm. 

"  My  dear  Ursula ! "  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  stopping 
amazed.  She  was  a  strong-minded  lady,  but  there  are 
limits. 

"  I  know,  Mother,"  said  the  girl,  still  laughing.  "  But 
he  is  so " 

"  I  can't  think  what's  come  over  her,"  said  Johnny, 
modestly  engaged  with  his  toilet.  There  was  a  short  in- 
terval. 

"  Blandy  won't  talk,"  observed  Johnny,  conscious  of 
disapproval  somewhere  in  the  atmosphere.  Through  his 
elbows  possibly, — -  his  back  was  turned  at  the  time. 

"  You'll  be  late,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  and  the  dis- 
approval materialized. 

"  It's  only,"  said  Ursula,  capturing  her  sedateness, 
"  that  John  won't  give  me  the  facts.  That  child's  not 
really  ill,  is  she,  Mother  ?  " 

"  III?  "  said  the  mistress  of  the  house.  "  What  do  you 
mean?" 

So  Johnny  told  her,  in  order.  Poor  kid  had  a  beastly 
cold,  and  was  stopping  up  for  the  evening.  Beastly  hard 
luck  on  her.  All  the  lot  of  them  sick  about  it, —  and 
Markham  in  tears. 

"  How  odd  of  Violet  not  to  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre, 
coming  inside  the  door.  She  was  on  the  trail.  Johnny 
would  really  have  to  steer  adroitly,  between  the  pair  of 
them.  He  begged  his  mother  to  take  a  seat. 

"  You'll  be  late,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  "  and  your 
father "  However,  she  sat  down.  Johnny,  in  his 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  47 

shirt-sleeves,  prepared  to  play  to  an  audience :  not  by  any 
means  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  She  wants  to  stop  upstairs,"  he  explained,  "  and  have 
cocoa  and  biscuits,  which  are  things  I  love.  So  does 
Bert  love  them, —  so  does  Jemmy.  It's  a  frightful  tempta- 
tion for  all  of  us.  Only  Jem  said  it  must  be  the  right 
sort  of  biscuits, —  that's  just  the  Oxford  way.  He's  been 
boring  Violet  on  the  biscuit  question, —  as  if  it  matters !  " 

"  Men  are  extraordinary,"  murmured  Ursula.  She 
just  believed  it  though,  having  brothers.  She  looked  to- 
wards Mrs.  Ingestre,  for  a  lead. 

"  Johnny,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  "  what  do  you  mean 
about  Jem  ?  Is  Violet  in  bed  ?  " 

"  Rather,"  said  Johnny.  "  Thought  she'd  better  go 
early,  you  know.  Saves  fag  on  these  occasions.  I  took 
the  lads  up  to  say  good  night  to  her  lately.  That's  how 
I  got  late.  She  wanted  to  say  she  couldn't  dance  with 
'em,  and  so  on.  She's  a  civil  little  girl." 

After  a  blank  pause — "  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing," 
said  Ursula  indignantly. 

"  You  see,"  said  Johnny,  settling  to  his  subject,  "  I  told 
Violet,  James  was  a  stiff  character,  apt  to  turn  nasty 
about  nothing,  when  women  cut  him  and  didn't  explain. 
He's  not  used  to  that,  up  at  Magdalen.  It  bothered  Violet 
a  bit,  and  I  didn't  want  that  either.  I  thought  —  er  — 
Ursula  would  disapprove.  The  kid's  not  exactly  fever- 
ish, Mother  —  you  remember?  Not  over  normal,  any- 
how,—  nor  under  it, —  kind  of  betwixt  and  between.  I 
—  eh  —  hardly  liked  the  look  of  her." 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  Johnny  shifted  at  once 
to  get  a  view  of  her  in  the  glass. 

"  Nothing  more,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I  took  Jem  up, — 
then  Bert  tacked  on  to  us.  Billy  would  have  come  at  a 
call.  It  was  the  cocoa  in  Bill's  case,  probably, —  he's  not 
a  lady's  man."  Another  expressive  pause, —  over-expres- 
sive. "  We  only  sat  about  a  bit  conversing,"  said  Johnny 
artlessly.  "  Violet  didn't  mind  us  much," 


48  THE  ACCOLADE 

Mrs.  Ingestre  looked  upon  the  admirable  Ursula,  and 
thought  upon  the  impeccable  Jem.  She  said  nothing,  be- 
cause there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  saying.  Johnny 
was  well  ahead  of  her  in  his  disposition  of  her  otherwise 
quite  respectable  household.  There  was  no  curbing  him 
in  his  present  mood,  she  was  aware.  He  had  slipped  a 
look  to  her  lately,  at  once  gleaming  and  lowering,  that 
she  knew.  She  had  best  not  interfere  with  his  private 
arrangements.  Instead,  she  looked  towards  the  door. 

"  Don't  go,  Mother,"  said  Johnny  appealingly.  "  It's 
all  right,  give  you  my  word.  She's  all  rolled  up  like  a 
little  dormouse,  like  a  little  guinea-pig, —  jolly  nice.  She 
does  as  she's  told,  brought  up  to  it.  And  she  was  laugh- 
ing when  we  left.  I  made  her  laugh,  not  Jemmy, —  and 
I  saw  to  her  too.  Fact  is — "  Johnny  regarded  himself 
and  his  tie,  separately  and  in  combination, — "  fact  is,  I 
feel  a  bit  responsible." 

"What?  "said  Agatha. 

"  Yes.     She  caught  it  from  me." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Ursula.  She  stared,  and  even  paled  a 
little,  in  the  effort  of  comprehending  him,  or  in  the  effort 
not  to  comprehend. 

"  I  gave  it  her,  darling,  I'm  afraid.  These  things  hang 
about  so.  Why, — "  Johnny  regarded  his  tie  again,-r-"  it's 
years  since  I  had  my  bad  colds.  Isn't  it,  Mother?  It 
must  be  years." 

Ursula  still  stared  a  moment.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  he's 
talking  nonsense,  Mother.  We  had  better  leave  him 
alone." 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre. 

"  Don't,"  said  Johnny  pathetically.  "  I'm  not  half- 
dressed  yet.  It's  such  a  bore  ragging  Blandy  all  alone. 
Can't  make  a  trade  of  that,  like  Father."  He  bit  his  lip 
as  he  glanced  in  the  mirror.  "  Mother,  ducky,  don't 
fag!  I  tell  you  I've  seen  to  it.  Can't  you  take  my 
word?" 

It  was  useless,  Mrs.  Ingestre  had  risen.     "  Be  quick, 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  49 

Johnny,"  she  said  with  composure  —  not  at  all  Ursula's 
composure  —  and  left  the  room. 

Silence  reigned  in  Johnny's  quarters.  Ursula  was  a 
nice  quiet  girl, —  peaceful.  Peace  was  to  be  Johnny's 
portion  henceforward,  a  capital  thing.  Peace,  and  obe- 
dience,—  that  above  all.  His  mother  omitted  to  obey, 
occasionally :  she  had  really  left  the  scene  before  she  need. 
But  then  she  might  be  concerned  as  to  his  father's  judg- 
ment of  this  high-handed  treatment  of  his  little  kins- 
woman under  his  roof, —  that  was  conceivable.  Violet's 
mother,  if  not  Violet,  counted  for  lots  in  the  family.  As 
for  Ursula, —  it  was  really  quite  doubtful  if  she  followed 
his  ingenious  reproof  at  all. 

"  I  can't  stop,"  remarked  Ursula,  feeling  the  outlines  of 
her  hair. 

"  It  looks  ripping,  don't  disturb  it,"  said  Johnny,  whose 
back  was  still  towards  her.  He  was  frowning  a  little  in 
his  glass,  though, —  very  upright, —  very  like  his  father 
for  the  instant,  but  that  the  frown  was  faintly  anxious 
too. 

Ursula  folded  her  hands.  "  Anyhow,  I  expect  it's  all 
for  the  best,"  she  said  presently.  "  The  child,  I  mean, — 
she'll  be  off  your  Mother's  mind." 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny  simply.  "  It's  what  you  wanted, 
isn't  it?  I  say, —  you  don't  awfully  mind  my  taking  it 
out  of  your  hands?  " 

"  It  might  save  trouble,  in  the  future,"  said  Ursula, 
smoothing  her  skirts  down  all  round  her,  "  if  you  let  me 
know  in  good  time  what  you  wanted,  instead " 

"  You  knew  what  I  wanted  perfectly  well." 

"  Don't,"  said  Ursula,—  at  the  tone. 

"  You  knew  what  I  wanted  perfectly  well,"  said 
Johnny,  changing  the  tone,  and  his  appearance.  "  Didn't 
you?  Didn't  you,  darling?  Just  say." 

She  smiled  uncertainly,  looking  aside.  "  Oh,  well,  what 
you  want's  not  the  only  thing  in  the  world." 


50  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Oh,  I  say !  Isn't  it  right  yet  ?  "  He  approached  her 
chaffing.  "  Tell  me  what  else  I've  got  to  do  ?  " 

"  Not  that,  anyhow,"  said  Ursula,  half-laughing,  hold- 
ing him  off.  "  No,  John, —  really.  The  idea  !  Do  be 
sensible  a  little  instead  of  —  ragging.  It's  only  —  I'm 
always  ready  to  do  anything,  in  reason.  I  only  want  to 
—  to  look  ahead." 

"  Well,  look  ahead,"  he  said,  calmly  and  sweepingly. 
"  Let's  do  it,  while  we  can,  for  the  Lord's  sake.  That's 
what  I  want  as  well." 

"  Not  now, —  nonsense !  "  She  was  scandalized,  really 
nervous.  "  John,  really,  do  think,"  she  said. 

"  What  am  I  to  think  of  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 

"  Blandy, —  anyone, —  you're  not  even  dressed." 

"  Get  along,  I'm  as  much  as  you  are,"  he  said,  care- 
lessly. 

Pause. 

"  Shocked  ?  "  enquired  Johnny,  looking  sidelong  at  her 
under  his  drooping  eyelids.  He  had  her  within  his  arm, 
quite  comfortably,  for  all  her  prudish  effort  to  get  away. 
Her  attempted  horror  was  prudish  also,  the  relics  of  an 
intolerable  training,  from  which  he  had  somehow  to  get 
her  free. 

Sometimes  Ursula  believed  John  liked  making  her  un- 
comfortable, that  he  aimed  at  that.  Every  now  and  then 
he  would  say  things  like  that,  which  "  men  "  in  the  ab- 
stract thought,  on  doubt,  but  no  gentleman  spoke  aloud. 
No  gentleman  of  Ursula's  category.  John's  father,  for 
instance,  was  more  distinguished  in  his  phraseology  in 
front  of  women,  though  he  might  be  accustomed  to  think 
things  twice  as  bad. 

She  tried  now  to  despise  him  as  a  schoolboy,  and  a 
horrid  one,  but  she  could  not  bring  it  off.  Yet  he  had 
not  the  pull  in  age  over  her:  she  herself  had,  by  a  month 
or  two,  the  superiority.  His  father  had  married  a  woman 
of  nearly  his  own  age  too.  The  Ingestres  had  no  age  to 
speak  of:  they  developed  young  and  wore  splendidly. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  51 

They  got  the  pull  in  other  ways,  a  cool  expectation,  a 
royal  egoism,  together  with  a  driving,  startling  force  on 
others  that  was  electrical, —  the  hackneyed  "  magnetic  " 
was  not  the  word.  Too  much  so  for  Ursula,  really.  She 
hated  to  be  startled,  it  numbed  her.  She  was  really, 
tacitly,  begging  him  not  to  drive  her,  work  her  too  hard, 
in  that  plea  to  be  forewarned. 

Johnny  accepted  it,  sensitively.  He  left  her  soon,  and 
went  back  to  his  business.  She  had  trusted  herself  near 
him,  so,  though  she  looked  "  beastly  pretty  "  in  her  nerv- 
ousness, he  took  no  advantage.  His  distinguished  father 
would  probably  have  taken  advantage,  had  Ursula  guessed. 

His  conclusion  was  that  it  was  all  right, —  that  it  had 
got  to  be.  He  believed  she  was  fond  of  him,  even  very 
fond,  once  he  got  through  her  guard.  It  took  a  pretty 
good  effort  to  get  through  it,  though, —  but  then  she  was 
but  half  out  of  her  shell.  She  was  a  handsome  girl  and 
a  nice  girl, —  and  a  good  one,  of  course.  He  was  perfectly 
convinced  of  her  virtues, —  he  only  wondered  a  little  at 
his  weariness  when  she  had  gone. 

As  for  the  evening  that  followed,  there  was  nothing 
wrong  with  it.  The  dance  went  brilliantly  off,  as  enter- 
tainments did,  when  the  two  Ingestres  were  in  competi- 
tion to  make  them  go.  Johnny  would  have  been  good 
alone, —  with  his  father  to  harass  him  he  was  brilliant. 
It  was  a  curious  but  invariable  fact,  some  deep  truth  of 
their  natures.  He  was  the  best  dancer  on  the  floor,  with 
ease,  he  flirted  disgracefully,  and  the  nine  "  odd  women," 
manipulated  with  transcendent  art,  thought  him  with  one 
accord  delightful. 

"  I  say,  Miss  Thynne  looks  pretty  ripping,  don't  she? " 
said  the  simple  Bert  to  Jem  Hertford,  at  one  juncture. 
"  Johnny's  in  luck." 

Jem  Hertford  did  not  reply,  and  Bert  did  not  miss  it. 
Followers  may  take  views  like  that,  but  friends  are  con- 
stituted otherwise.  Hertford  did  not  want  Ingestre  to  be 


53  THE  ACCOLADE 

married.  It  was  the  wrong  thing  for  him.  Johnny  was 
finer,  as  it  were,  at  large,  defying  authority,  taking  what 
he  wanted  of  those  that  passed,  a  gentleman  of  the  road. 
That  was  how  Jem  always  saw  him,  he  had  the  type,  and 
he  looked  the  part,  when  he  roamed  the  world  in  Rachel's 
company.  And  then  he  went  and  linked  himself  to  a  girl 
like  that,  whom  any  fool  might  have  married!  Sicken- 
ing !  It  was  almost  enough  to  make  Jem  chuck  his  ambi- 
tions, and  sink  into  matrimony  himself. 


PART  I 


THE  ASPIRANT 


WE  pass  ten  years:  and  the  chronicle  resettles  upon  a 
certain  season  when  Captain  Falkland's  family,  ably  com- 
manded by  Captain  Falkland's  wife,  came  to  London  from 
Dorsetshire,  and  took  up  their  abode  in  their  fine  new 
mansion  in  Coburg  Place,  south  of  the  Park. 

The  Falklands  were  excellent  country  people  by  taste 
and  origin,  small  squires  for  several  generations  back, 
dividing  their  attention  between  serving  their  country  in 
the  field  abroad,  and  tilling  its  neglected  soil  at  home; 
but  the  Captain's  wife  touched  commerce  through  her 
relations,  and  wealth  accrued  to  her  during  her  married 
life  with  such  persistent  partiality,  that  it  became  in- 
cumbent on  her — so  she  said  —  to  marry  her  younger 
girl  really  well.  Everything,  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  pointed 
to  a  move.  Her  son  Harold  had  just  left  Oxford,  where 
he  had  lived  in  a  style  exceeding  anything  they  could  pro- 
vide for  him  in  the  old  country  home :  her  elder  daughter 
was  already  settled  in  moderate  married  ease  in  town : 
Helena,  having  left  her  last  school,  was  in  need  of  fashion- 
able finishing  by  lectures,  classes,  hair-specialists,  and 
other  mysteries,  before  she  faced  the  world  the  following 
season :  and  there  was  no  reason  Helena  should  not  do  as 
well  or  better  than  Constance,  if  only  Helena's  father 
would  let  his  wife  manage.  So  the  Captain, —  who  had 
no  wish  whatever  to  rid  himself  of  his  schoolgirl  daugh- 
ter, of  whom  he  was  fond, —  sadly  concurred:  made  a 
farefell  tour  of  his  favorite  walks  and  prospects :  and 
taking  Lesbia  —  known  to  the  Captain's  environment  as 

55 


56  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  the  finest  dog  in  the  world  " —  with  him  as  consolation, 
followed  his  womenkind  to  London. 

Arrived  there,  he  still  advanced  no  objection,  though 
the  house  his  wife  chose  to  live  in  struck  him  as  far  too 
large.  He  found,  however,  that  his  son,  who  had  been  at 
a  smart  college,  and  being  a  smart  specimen,  had  emerged 
therefrom  with  a  very  high  Class,  and  no  particular  wish 
to  do  anything  further  in  life,  disagreed  with  him. 
Harold  looked  round  the  living-rooms  in  Coburg  Place, 
and  pronounced  them  "  decent,"  though  he  begged  his 
sister  to  keep  a  hand  on  his  mother's  antediluvian  decora- 
tive impulses.  His  own  room  he  took  into  his  own  ac- 
complished hands,  and  would  have  taken  Helena's  also, 
only  she  had  a  scruple  about  hurting  her  mother's  feel- 
ings. So  Harold  deferred  agreeably  to  the  scruple,  since 
girls  go  in  for  such  things,  and  merely  presented  his  sister 
with  a  framed  study  of  something  very  homely,  by  one  of 
our  very  newest  masters,  to  hang  on  her  walls;  and 
warned  her  which  way  up  she  ought  to  hang  it  —  just  in 
time. 

Two  or  three  months  after  settling  in,  when  they  were 
all  beginning  to  get  accustomed  to  city  circumstances  and 
superfluous  space,  Captain  Falkland  had  an  idea.  This 
occurred  to  him  now  and  then,  but  he  did  not  often  get 
beyond  the  announcement  of  it,  for  he  was  easily  dis- 
couraged by  a  feminine  frown.  His  inspirations  broke 
in  glory  over  the  household  at  luncheon-time,  and  faded 
into  the  melancholy  might-have-been  before  the  dinner- 
gong  ceased  clanging  in  the  hall.  On  this  occasion  how- 
ever the  Captain  stuck  to  his  colors  with  unwonted  de- 
termination, and  something  actually  came  of  it. 

The  occasion  of  the  idea  was  as  follows.  It  came  to 
the  ears  of  Captain  Falkland  that  the  son  of  his  old  com- 
rade-in-arms, then  Captain,  since  Major,  and  now  Colonel 
Auberon,  and  his  own  son's  school  and  college  friend,  was 
deliberately  living  on  his  wits  in  town,  in  comparative 
indigence  and  obscurity.  This  was  the  eldest,  by  a  good 


THE  ASPIRANT  57 

seven  years,  of  Colonel  Auberon's  young  family,  which 
was  quartered  in  India,  and  of  whom  only  the  elder  boy 
and  girl  were  in  England.  Of  the  girl  the  Falklands 
knew  little,  since  she  lived  with  a  clever  aunt  at  Hamp- 
stead.  Of  the  boy  Quentin  they  had  seen  a  good  deal  in 
the  past,  though  not  recently, —  he  had  been  Harold's 
most  admired  friend  at  school.  That  Harold  should  ad- 
mire anyone  was  enough  in  itself  to  impress  the  Falk- 
lands; that  he  should  persist  in  his  high  valuation  of 
young  Auberon  throughout  his  cynical  Oxford  day,  was 
yet  more  striking.  The  boys'  colleges  were  different, 
their  sets  barely  crossed,  since  Auberon  belonged  by  choice 
rather  than  necessity  to  the  group  of  young  men  who  had 
their  way  to  make ;  yet  Harold  continued,  with  quiet  per- 
tinacity, to  seek  his  society,  repeat  his  opinions,  and 
"  back "  him  as  destined  to  the  biggest  sort  of  public 
career. 

To  those  who  had  seen  young  Auberon  in  society  only, 
this  was  almost  incomprehensible,  for  he  neither  swelled 
largely,  nor  did  he  boast,  and  with  women  he  was  abso- 
lutely shy.  But  the  effects  of  him  on  his  kind  were 
known  to  Harold,  who  had  watched  them  often,  at  school 
and  in  the  Oxford  clubs.  He  ruled  looser  minds  as  do 
those  who  have  an  object  in  life  from  its  opening,  or 
better  still,  a  progressive  interest.  This  interest  was  no 
more  nor  less  than  the  British  Constitution.  Quentin 
came  of  a  race  of  slightly  dogmatic  Empire-builders,  men 
framed  for  government,  who  fitted  the  machine  elaborated 
by  their  fathers  as  a  sword  its  sheath.  Dogmatic  in 
speech,  they  were  romantic  in  spirit,  and  most  of  them 
had  been  military.  Quentin  himself  was  not, —  he  left 
the  military  "  panache  "  to  others,  though  he  had  hanker- 
ings after  it  occasionally,  and  dropped  into  his  destined 
place  in  the  constitutional  machine  upon  the  civil  side. 
He  was  a  born  controller,  and  developer  by  the  way :  only 
it  was  systems  he  must  improve,  rather  than  persons.  He 
was  ready  to  leave  the  little  matter  of  personal  develop- 


58  THE  ACCOLADE 

ment  to  others, —  he  even  granted  women  a  share  in  that 
game.  Quentin's  game  was  a  bigger  one,  he  was  acutely 
ambitious;  but  he  betrayed  little  or  nothing  of  it  in  his 
daily  life,  and  only  constant  companions  like  Harold  dis- 
covered or  guessed  the  fact. 

His  other  passion  in  life  was  for  experiment,  for  he  had 
an  enterprising  mind;  but  in  that  he  was  not  socially 
inclined, —  he  was  careful  to  involve  no  other  than  him- 
self, or  occasionally  Harold.  He  was  not  hampered  in 
his  experiments  by  the  fear  of  failure,  since  his  curiosity 
easily  outweighed  his  conceit.  He  was  fortunate,  too,  in 
having  no  immediate  family  to  involve,  his  young  sister 
being  already  taken  in  hand  by  his  clever  aunt.  Quentin 
was  singularly  free  of  feminine  claims,  and,  we  fear, 
reveled  in  the  immunity.  One  really  has  not  time  in  life 
for  everything.  Women,  and  what  they  represented, 
were  not  worthless,  but  they  must  wait.  That  was  Mr. 
Auberon's  general  attitude  at  twenty-three,  when  this 
chronicle  makes  his  acquaintance. 

Having  thus  prejudiced  our  readers  firmly  against  him, 
it  becomes  necessary  to  introduce  him  in  person,  for  such 
introduction,  even  to  the  least  well-disposed  critic,  could 
not  do  him  harm.  His  appearance  and  address  were  those 
of  any  well-bred  young  citizen,  and  his  tastes  and  habits 
of  the  simplest,  even  in  a  generation  in  which  simplicity 
became  the  mode.  Quentin  could  dine  off  dry  bread  and 
sleep  under  a  haystack  with  the  best  of  his  contemporaries, 
nor  did  he  do  it  merely  to  discover  what  it  was  like.  He 
and  Harold  did  a  number  of  queer  things  in  their  Oxford 
vacations,  which,  when  alluded- to  easily  afterwards,  pro- 
duced palpitations  in  Mrs.  Falkland's  maternal  breast. 
Yet  Mrs.  Falkland  possessed,  by  reflection  from  her  son, 
a  certain  confidence  in  the  omnipotent  and  invisible  Mr. 
Auberon,  and  she  did  not  attempt  the  thankless  task  of 
dividing  the  pair.  She  was  passive,  and  only  occasionally 
piteous,  on  the  subject,  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak: 
when  Quentin,  owing  to  the  new  house  in  Coburg  Place, 


THE  ASPIRANT  59 

and  Captain  Falkland's  sudden  idea,  was  driven  once 
more  to  come  to  close  quarters  with  Harold's  family. 

Quentin's  condition  at  the  time  was  self-dependent,  by 
his  own  choice.  The  kind  of  effort  was  not,  in  his  father's 
circumstances,  strictly  necessary,  but  it  was  to  Quentin's 
ideas,  since  the  next  Auberon  in  order  was  now  reaching 
an  age  to  be  educated,  and  was  shortly  to  be  sent  home 
in  his  turn.  With  his  eye  upon  the  India  Office,  as  soon 
as  it  could  be  respectably  attained,  Quentin  gave  up,  in 
spite  of  his  aunt's  protest,  the  room  he  had  hitherto  oc- 
cupied in  her  small  house  at  Hampstead,  and  lived,  when 
he  was  not  at  Oxford  or  with  pupils  in  the  country,  an 
extremely  modest  and  retired  life  of  his  own  in  town, 
"  cramming,"  with  concentrated  ardor,  to  fit  himself  for 
the  reduction  of  the  next  barrier  that  stretched  across 
his  path. 

Fate  reached  him  in  this  way.  Harold,  always  in  his 
confidence,  made  the  mistake  of  alluding  in  a  jocular 
spirit  to  his  hermit's  cell  in  public,  at  the  Falkland  lunch- 
table.  Whereupon  Captain  Falkland  aroused,  astonishing 
his  world ;  and  proclaiming  it  aloud  to  be  "  flat  non- 
sense "  and  "  not  to  be  thought  of,"  took  steps  at  once  for 
Quentin's  relief.  With  the  utmost  tact  and  kindliness, 
and  the  least  elegant  phraseology  conceivable,  he  signified 
in  a  few  lines  to  Quentin  that,  during  that  part  of  the 
year  when  his  own  town  house  was  open,  a  couple  of 
rooms  in  it  were  at  Quentin's  entire  disposal,  for  as  long 
as  he  pleased;  and  that  the  Captain  would  be  seriously 
offended  if  he  did  not  abandon  his  lodgings  in  their  favor 
immediately,  sine  die,  and  thenceforward. 

Quentin,  having  considered  the  offer,  decided  to  refuse 
it,  even  at  the  risk  of  offense  to  the  kind  Captain:  and 
called  upon  the  Falklands  one  morning  to  explain.  He 
had  provided  himself  with  a  cogent  list  of  reasons,  and 
was  confident  that  he  could  present  them  both  clearly  and 
courteously  to  the  ear  of  his  father's  old  friend,  granted 
he  could  get  a  private  interview.  The  aspect  of  the  new 


60  THE  ACCOLADE 

house,  new  servants,  and  smart  furniture  on  his  arrival 
made  him  more  certain  still.  The  only  thing  he  dreaded 
was  that  Mrs.  Falkland,  whom  he  remembered  sufficiently, 
and  who  would,  he  guessed,  understand  nothing  of  his 
need  for  privacy  and  concentration,  should  intervene  be- 
fore he  could  make  his  position  really  clear. 

As  fate  or  fortune  would  have  it,  both  the  Captain  and 
his  wife  were  out;  and  Mr.  Auberon  was  just  withdraw- 
ing and  deciding  to  explain  by  post,  when  he  found  him- 
self face  to  face  with  their  daughter,  Miss  Helena,  who 
had  been  exercising  the  dogs  in  the  Park.  She  met  him 
a  few  steps  from  the  door,  and  called  instantly  to  the 
servant  not  to  shut  it,  in  an  easy  and  decisive  tone.  Since 
she  had  been  racing  the  dogs  in  the  Park,  she  was  flushed, 
but  apart  from  that,  and  some  slight  breathlessness,  her 
composure  and  straightforwardness  were  what  he  remem- 
bered. So  he  let  her  delay  him,  and  conduct  him  to  her 
father's  study  on  the  groundfloor  of  the  mansion,  to  listen 
to  his  case. 

It  was  long  since  Quentin  had  seen  her,  though  in  his 
schooldays  he  had  been  fairly  frequently  in  her  company, 
when  he  joined  Harold's  family  for  rock-climbing  expedi- 
tions in  Switzerland.  She  had  been  a  child  then,  and  boy- 
fashion,  Quentin  had  not  greatly  regarded  her :  especially 
since  his  thoughts  in  mountain-districts  were  always 
bound  by  the  single  purpose -of  scoring  peaks.  That  left 
no  room  for  sisters :  but  Harold  had  alluded  to  her,  from 
time  to  time,  so  Quentin  was  not  quite  lacking  in  informa- 
tion on  the  subject.  Harold  and  Quentin  each  had  a 
young  sister  of  whom  they  were  frankly  fond:  so  an 
occasional  comparison  of  notes  led  to  the  establishment 
of  some  useful  statistical  facts  as  to  sisters  in  general, 
not  to  be  despised. 

Thus  Quentin  had  learnt  that  Miss  Falkland  was  in 
training  to  be  a  society  beauty,  and  that  Harold,  privately, 
thought  it  rot,  but  did  not  tell  the  poor  old  Mater  so. 
That  Helena  had  a  long-guarded  ambition  to  become  an 


THE  ASPIRANT  61 

actress,  which  "  scarified  "  the  Mater  so  much,  that  she 
had  taken  to  having  a  headache  whenever  the  subject 
was  mentioned.  That  Harold  "  backed  "  his  sister  in  her 
independent  ideas,  partly  in  earnest  for  her  own  sake, 
partly  in  mischief  to  annoy  his  mother.  That  Helena,  all 
told,  was  quite  a  sensible  girl,  who  mended  your  coat  for 
you,  walked  in  all  weathers,  and  gave  nearly  as  good  as 
she  got  on  the  tennis-court  and  in  the  lists  of  domestic 
controversy :  unless  —  a  serious  exception  —  she  found 
herself  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  formless  thing  called  a 
baby;  whereupon  she  dropped  dignity  and  decorum,  and 
lost  all  regard  for  logic,  grammar,  and  good  sense,  in  a 
flow  of  words  as  formless  as  the  thing  to  which  they  were 
addressed.  Wherefore  Harold  preferred  not  to  accom- 
pany Helena  on  her  Sunday  walks  with  her  father  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  where  babies  abound,  because  the 
governor  stood  that  sort  of  exhibition  better  than  he  did. 
Not  to  mention  people  looked  at  Helena  quite  enough  as 
it  was,  owing  to  her  peculiar  hair. 

Quentin  remembered  Helena's  peculiar  hair :  it  was,  so 
to  speak,  on  his  notes,  since  it  had  swung  down  her  back 
in  a  ruddy-tinted  rope  in  the  school-days  when  he  had  first 
known  her.  Now  the  first  point  he  noted  was  that  the 
rope  was  no  more:  the  hair  specialists  had  dispersed  it, 
according  to  their  ideas,  in  waves  and  coils  about  her 
head.  It  changed  the  look  of  her  considerably,  one  had 
to  get  over  it :  more  especially  when  in  the  study  she 
cast  her  hat  aside,  and  the  full  intricacy  of  the  hair's 
arrangement  became  visible.  But  he  soon  discovered  the 
girl  of  fifteen  unchanged  beneath  this  crust,  or  crest,  of 
fashion ;  and  found  himself  talking  to  her  as  naturally 
as  though  she  had  been  Harold. 

Miss  Helena  listened  with  her  eyes  cast  down  to  his 
cogent  reasons,  and  seemed  to  turn  them  over  for  a  little 
while  before  she  spoke. 

"  I  will  explain  to  Father,"  she  then  said,  looking  at 
Quentin,  "  or  try  to  explain.  I  think  I've  got  it  straight. 


62  THE  ACCOLADE 

I  can't  prevent  his  being  disappointed,  of  course.  I  shall 
have  to  let  Harold  know  he  was  right." 

"  What  did  Harold  say?"  asked  Quentin. 

"  Oh,  that  you  would  never  agree  to  inhabit  a  place 
with  such  a  frivolous  atmosphere;  because  you  would 
never  trust  us  —  Mother  and  me  —  to  let  you  alone." 

Quentin  was  slightly  disturbed  by  this  counter-attack, 
and  sat  forward  in  his  chair.  "  Indeed  I  didn't  mean 
that,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I  hope  you  don't  imagine " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Helena,  patting  her  hair  to  be 
sure  that  the  dog-race  had  not  deranged  it,  "  and  it's  quite 
natural.  I  can  guess  pretty  much  how  you  feel,  particu- 
larly as  Harold  took  a  lot  of  trouble  to  explain  to  me. 
He  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  Father  did  not  under- 
stand a  worker's  point  of  view,  but  that  I  might.  Be- 
cause I  want  dreadfully  to  do  something  myself  one  of 
these  days,  only  nobody  allows  me." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Quentin,  smiling.  "  I  hope 
you  have  advanced  a  little  since  I  met  you  last."  He  had 
been  bound,  of  course,  even  in  the  old  days,  to  come 
across  Helena's  acting-mania.  It  was  a  vexed  subject, 
and  never  remained  in  abeyance  very  long. 

"  Very  little,"  said  Helena,  and  shook  her  gleaming 
head.  "  There  are  times  when  I  all  but  despair.  But  I 
still  continue  to  work  like  a  mole  beneath  the  surface,  and 
just  lately  Father  has  shown  signs  of  crumbling.  Clear 
signs.  Wouldn't  it  be  thrilling  if  he  did  ?  "  She  threw 
this  at  Quentin  suddenly. 

"  After  all  these  years,"  he  answered  gravely.  "  It 
would  indeed." 

He  looked  at  Helena's  pensive  face  a  moment.  She 
had  got  her  breath  by  now,  and  the  temporary  flush  had 
faded.  She  had  not  much  color  by  nature,  but  she  looked 
healthy  and  vigorous,  and  knew  how  to  sit  still.  Quentin 
wished  suddenly  that  his  own  sister  could  learn  to  sit  like 
that,  without  twisting  herself  into  all  kinds  of  shapes  and 


THE  ASPIRANT  63 

angles.  It  made  such  a  much  pleasanter  presence  in  the 
room. 

"  Miss  Falkland,  did  you  have  an  argument  with 
Harold ?  "  he  asked,  "  about  my  coming?  I  mean,  did  you 
take  a  side  ?  " 

"  Of  course/'  said  Helena.  "  I  backed  Father.  I  have 
to  back  him  against  Harold,  they're  so  unfairly  matched. 
You  see,  Father  produced  the  plan  at  lunch,  one  of  his 
topping  ideas.  He  is  always  having  them.  And  I  can't 
bear  Harold  to  snub  him,  at  any  rate  quite  at  once.  I 
know  he  has  been  wanting  to  do  something  for  Colonel 
Auberon  for  years,  and  he  thought  he  had  at  last  found  a 
way.  So  when  Harold  said  he  would  never  get  you  to 
come  here,  I  said  he  would, —  according  to  my  recollec- 
tion. I  couldn't  go  on  anything  stronger  than  that." 

"  Did  you  —  er  —  risk  anything  but  your  credit  for 
remembrance  ?  "  asked  Quentin,  with  proper  caution. 

"  How  well  you  know  Harold !  "  said  Helena,  looking  at 
him  again.  "  Of  course  when  he  proposed  a  shilling,  I 
accepted  it.  Once  started,  you  can't  go  back,  and  Father 
was  depending  on  me.  I  think  Mother  thought  it  rather 
shocking  of  me  to  bet."  She  sighed.  "  Mother  always 
thinks,  when  Harold  and  I  discuss  the  least  thing  across 
the  table,  we  are  quarreling.  Because  we  sit  just  opposite, 
you  know.  Perhaps  we  did  talk  a  little  fast." 

"  Rather  hard  lines  if  you  mayn't  argue  with  Harold," 
said  Quentin. 

"  I'm  getting  too  old  for  it,"  said  Helena,  patting  her 
hair  again.  Her  care  for  its  construction  suggested  that 
it  had  only  attained  that  eminence  recently.  "  I  am  too 
old  for  most  things  now.  However,  I  pacified  Mother. 
I  told  her  I  was  simply  in  honor  bound  to  back  Father: 
and  I  promised  her  it  was  the  last  bet  I  should  ever  make." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  the  cause  of  your  losing  it,"  said 
Quentin.  "  I  had  no  idea  it  would  be  such  a  historic 
occasion." 


64  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  I'm  sorry  too,"  said  Helena,  and  there  was  silence. 
"  You  see,  quite  apart  from  the  shilling,  I  hoped  you  would 
come.  I  have  terribly  hard  work  with  Harold  at  dinner 
sometimes, —  especially  when  he  lifts  one  eyebrow,  and 
overlooks  my  inaccuracies.  You  never  did  that."  She 
threw  this  at  him  suddenly  again. 

"  Didn't  I  ?  "  said  Quentin,  disturbed.  He  tried  to  re- 
member what  kind  of  a  prig  he  had  been  at  seventeen. 

"  Hardly  ever,"  said  Helena,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. "  In  private,  of  course,  I  can  deal  with  Harold : 
but  in  public,  with  Mother  hushing  me  at  every  turn,  I 
can't." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"  It's  frightfully  good  of  Captain  Falkland,"  said  Quen- 
tin doubtfully. 

"  I  had  a  difference  with  Mother  too  about  the  rooms," 
said  Helena.  "  You  have  let  me  in  for  a  lot  of  quarrel- 
ing." 

"What  rooms?" 

"  Yours,  if  you  came.  This  house  is  so  ridiculously 
larger  than  we  want.  Would  you  mind  coming  to  look 
at  them?" 

"  What's  the  point  ?  "  said  Quentin. 

"  Only  I  might  still  be  right  about  the  ones  you  would 
have  liked  best,  if  you  had  accepted  Father.  Mightn't  I  ? 
It  would  be  some  consolation." 

"  For  the  loss  of  the  shilling?  " 

"  Yes." 

Needless  to  say,  having  been  thus  cunningly  induced  to 
see  the  careful  preparations  made  in  his  honor, —  or 
rather  his  father's  honor, —  in  the  Falkland  house,  Quen- 
tin gave  in.  Helena  had  a  delightful  time  at  dinner  that 
night,  informing  Harold.  She  let  him  off  nothing  of  her 
triumph.  She  would  not  let  him  forget  the  shilling  either, 
though  he  was  preparing  to  overlook  such  a  detail.  Mrs. 
Falkland  was  rather  fussed  at  Helena  having  shown  Mr. 
Auberon  his  private  rooms  in  her  absence,  and  having 


THE  ASPIRANT  65 

talked  to  him  so  freely,  discussing  the  length  of  his  bed, 
the  merits  of  hot  and  cold  baths,  and  so  forth :  it  was  the 
kind  of  thing  Helena  did  without  reflection.  She  seemed 
incapable  of  certain  lines  of  reflection  at  all,  and  was  ter- 
ribly impulsive.  At  this  transition  period  Helena  might 
be  said  to  take  all  her  mother's  time;  but  Mrs.  Falkland 
was  chivying  her  into  the  narrow  road  of  propriety  by 
degrees ;  and  had  every  reason  to  hope  she  would  do  her 
credit,  when  she  emerged,  complete  and  radiant,  from  the 
shadow  of  the  schoolroom. 

II 

Miss  Helena  Falkland  had  not  been  long  before  the 
world's  eye,  the  following  winter,  when  the  world  learnt 
that  her  mother  was  in  difficulties  about  her.  Consider- 
ing her  attractions,  this  was  not  surprising,  but  the  diffi- 
culty, when  arrived  at,  did  not  prove  to  be  of  the  kind 
they  thought. 

Helena,  it  seemed,  had  the  Falkland  fault  of  tenacity, 
only  her  mother  called  it  obstinacy.  She  had  had  the  idea 
first  at  twelve  years  old,  and  never  turned  ;  she  had  slowly, 
very  slowly,  carried  all  before  her.  First,  her  elocution 
teacher  succumbed,  a  haughty  lady,  who  yet  admitted 
Helena  "  had  a  gift."  All  her  band  of  school  friends 
were  in  her  pocket,  naturally:  indeed  most  of  them  had 
had  dreams  of  becoming  great  actresses  too.  Her  brother 
Harold,  who  really  ought  to  have  known  better,  encour- 
aged her  absurd  ideas.  Harold's  friend  Mr.  Auberon 
(who  had  such  an  influence  with  dear  Helena)  kept  a 
tiresomely  open  mind,  and  steered  a  middle  course,  taking 
refuge  behind  Harold  when  necessary.  Now  her  father, 
lured  by  these  various  young  men,  and  by  the  coaxing  of 
his  favorite  daughter,  was  wavering.  Captain  Falkland 
"  didn't  see  why  the  girl  shouldn't  have  a  shot,  if  her  heart 
was  set  on  it," — and  thus  was  Mrs.  Falkland  herself  let 
in.  ...  "  And  look  at  her,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland. 

Her  confidantes  looked,  not  unwillingly.     Helena  had 


66  THE  ACCOLADE 

entered  upon  her  first  London  season  to  become,  almost 
instantly,  a  success, —  what  our  grandfathers  would  have 
called  a  toast.  She  was  admitted  handsome,  beautiful  at 
her  best :  young  girls,  of  course,  are  changeable.  She  was 
popular,  by  a  means  known  to  herself,  without  being  the 
least  original,  audacious,  or  noisy.  Everybody  liked  her 
on  sight,  smiled,  made  room  for  her,  listened  to  what  she 
said,  introduced  her  to  their  eldest  sons,  and  regretted  it 
afterwards.  Not  that  she  was  ill-dowered, —  she  would 
have  a  nice  little  fortune  through  the  mother,  and  her 
origin  on  the  father's  side  was  respectable.  She  might  do 
quite  good  things  in  time, —  so  said  the  wiseacres  who 
watch  the  seasons  change. 

Mrs.  Falkland  did  not  repeat  all  this,  but  a  few  hints 
and  allusions  were  enough  to  recall  it  to  the  minds  of  her 
rivals,  the  other  mammas.  These  ladies,  who  all  had 
daughters  more  or  less  "obstinate,"  shook  their  heads 
over  what  Miss  Falkland  looked,  was,  and  might  have 
been. 

After  that,  accepting  her  strange  prepossession,  they 
discussed  ways  and  means  to  its  realization,  and  all,  in 
varying  degrees,  betrayed  their  ignorance.  The  great 
thing,  they  agreed  with  Mrs.  Falkland,  was  to  let  the  girl 
have  a  trial  in  a  manner  that  was  public,  without  being 
too  public,  if  you  understood :  something  fairly  expert,  and 
thoroughly  refined, —  the  ideal,  in  short,  for  our  talented 
daughters.  To  arrive  at  the  ideal,  one  had  to  get  hold 
of  the  "  people  who  knew."  To  catch  the  people  who 
knew  by  their  coat-tails,  or  their  skirt-tails,  if  it  should  so 
happen,  was  the  problem. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  these  drawing-room 
councils,  called  in  Helena's  absence,  for  her  good,  that 
Captain  Falkland  had  an  idea.  This,  as  we  have  men- 
tioned, happened  to  him  now  and  then,  generally  after 
rather  a  heavy  silence.  He  and  Lesbia  had  assisted  at  the 
council,  in  silence,  from  the  hearthrug,  for  a  good  half- 
hour,  before  he  astonished  the  room. 


THE  ASPIRANT  67 

"  There's  Ursula  Thynne,"  said  the  Captain.  "  The 
eldest  of  Joe  Thynne's  brood, —  the  General.  She  mar- 
ried someone  in  that  class,  if  I  remember  right.  There 
was  a  mighty  fuss,  I  know,  before  she  settled." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  vague  statements  like  that,  How- 
ard ?  "  complained  his  wife. 

"  That's  all  right,  Falkland,"  said  another  superfluous 
man,  coming  to  life  in  a  modest  corner.  "  That's  quite  a 
good  spot,  if  I  may  say  so.  Miss  Thynne  married  young 
Ingestre,  the  younger  John.  And  he's  right  in  the  know, 
if  anyone  is, —  he  knows  the  Mitchells,  certainly.  I've 
seen  Monty  Mitchell  with  him,  at  the  club." 

The  council  of  matrons  stared  amazed.  To  think  that 
this  Daniel  had  been  sitting  among  them,  neglected,  all 
this  time!  Montagu  Mitchell  was  an  actor-manager,  a 
name  known  to  all :  it  was  the  first  time  any  of  the  lines 
of  operation  suggested  had  ended  in  a  professional  name. 
Mrs.  Falkland,  however,  still  looked  skeptical  over  the 
tea-tray. 

"  It  might  do,  if  we  could  get  at  'em,"  said  the  Captain, 
less  certainly  than  before,  and  glancing  at  his  wife.  "  Do 
you  feel  inclined  to  present  us,  Sykes  ?  " 

The  superfluous  man  considered.  "  Doubt  if  I  can,"  he 
admitted.  "  It  would  have  to  be  round-about,  anyhow. 
If  you  want  a  straight  tip,  get  at  young  Ingestre  through 
the  women.  Plenty  to  choose  from,"  he  added  pensively. 
"  That's  his  kind." 

"  I  must  have  links  with  the  Thynnes,"  said  the  good 
Captain  later,  pondering  this  "  straight  tip  "  to  assist  his 
wife.  "  The  Auberons,  now, —  they  and  the  Thynnes 
were  hand  in  glove, —  their  estates  in  Devonshire  touched, 
I  remember.  Why  not  work  the  Auberon  boy,  Kathie? 
He'd  link  you  on  to  Ursula,  just  try  him.  Quite  likely  his 
people  have  already  made  him  call." 

Mrs.  Falkland  still  looked  skeptical,  and  failed  to  en- 
courage him  at  any  point.  All  very  well  his  talking  like 
that,  she  said,  but  the  Ingestres  were  the  hardest  people 


68  THE  ACCOLADE 

in  London  to  know,  anyone  would  tell  him.  That  Thynne 
girl  would  have  grown  above  herself  and  them,  long  be- 
fore this,  if  she  had  accomplished  such  a  connection. 
Finally,  the  Captain  and  Lesbia  retired  in  depression, 
leaving  the  Captain's  wife  determined  to  follow  his  advice 
to  the  letter,  and  with  the  least  delay.  His  last  idea  was 
the  happiest  of  all.  That  Mr.  Auberon's  family  had  been 
neighbors  and  intimates  of  Mrs.  Ingestre's,  was  the  kind 
of  invaluable  fact  that  might  have  languished  for  ever  in 
obscurity,  but  for  this  lucky  chance.  That,  with  the  other 
excuse  in  hand  of  Helena's  acting  ambition,  might  at 
length  hoist  Mrs.  Falkland  onto  a  long  coveted  social 
platform. 

She  was  not  purely  selfish  in  her  scheming,  it  must  be 
explained:  she  wanted  interest  for  her  son  Harold. 
Harold,  his  mother  was  convinced,  was  a  person  of  great 
though  quiet  talents  in  the  diplomatic  line.  He  was  a 
born  diplomatist, —  she  had  even  marked  it  in  the  nursery. 
Since  those  early  days,  he  had  never  failed  to  get  what 
he  wanted  with  as  few  words  as  possible ;  and  could  effect 
more  in  controversy  by  the  lift  of  an  eyebrow,  and  a  thumb 
thrust  carelessly  into  his  button-hole,  than  others  by  weeks 
of  the  wittiest  argument.  Now,  money  was  not  lacking 
towards  Harold's  future, —  Mrs.  Falkland  had  heaps : 
talent  was  not  lacking,  obviously  —  even  Mr.  Auberon 
respected  his  attainments:  style  was  not  lacking  —  Har- 
old's style  was  unique.  Only  interest  was  lacking,  and 
that  must  be  made  for  him,  by  his  mother's  tireless  effort. 
The  Ingestres, —  who  really  were  unspeakably  high  up, 
and  far  back,  and  well  within,  and  right  at  the  back  of, 
and  so  forth, —  were  the  very  people  to  help  her.  They 
were  the  kind  of  family  whose  word  has  weight  in  high 
places, —  they  were  also  the  kind  of  family  on  whom  minds 
like  Mrs.  Falkland's  love  to  dwell,  even  if  they  dwell  for 
ever  at  a  distance.  Now,  though  she  would  still  have 
preferred  to  know  the  parents,  it  was  obviously  better 
than  nothing  to  know  the  son.  So  Mrs.  Falkland  went  to 


THE  ASPIRANT  69 

work  con  amore,  and  spread  the  usual  nets  abroad  to 
ensnare  Ursula  Thynne,  who  had  married  the  Ingestres' 
heir,  and  consequently  must  sooner  or  later  become  a 
central  figure  among  them.  Military  society  is  sure  to 
hang  together  by  innumerable  threads  if  one  takes  the 
trouble  to  find  them:  and  before  Helena's  first  London 
season  had  been  long  under  way,  Mrs.  Falkland  had 
triumphantly  "  cornered "  young  Mrs.  Ingestre,  planted 
an  adroit  hint,  and  been  politely  asked  to  tea. 

But  luck  was  against  Mrs.  Falkland  in  these  cautious 
schemes  for  her  children's  good.  The  young  in  these  days 
never  know  how  to  be  managed,  however  great  may  be 
their  elders'  talent  for  managing  them.  Helena  herself, 
reckless  of  either  peril  or  advantage  that  might  accrue  to 
her  from  the  proceeding,  danced  with  Mr.  Johnny  Inges- 
tre in  person,  at  a  ball  where  her  mother  was  supposed  to 
be  protecting  her,  without  her  mother's  knowledge.  This 
fashion  of  flying  straight  at  the  mark,  while  her  mother 
was  going  nicely  round  about  to  it,  was  disturbing  to  her 
mother's  ideas:  and  since  it  was  just  the  kind  of  thing 
Helena  was  always  doing,  it  made  her  fretful. 

"  You  have  no  business  to  get  introductions  without 
telling  me,"  she  said.  "  The  man  might  be  quite  unsuit- 
able, you  can't  know." 

"  But  I  couldn't  refuse  to  dance  with  him,  could  I  ?  " 
said  Helena. 

"  It  all  depends,"  said  her  mother.     "  What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"  Tall,"  said  Helena,  "  and  dark,  with  drooping  eyes 
that  open  at  you  rather  suddenly  when  you  speak.  And 
he  dances  quite  divinely." 

"Were  you  introduced  to  his  wife?"  said  Mrs.  Falk- 
land, having  digested  this  personal  description. 

"His  wife?"  said  Helena.  "No.  I  shouldn't  have 
thought  he  had  one." 

Mrs.  Falkland  considered  this  again,  looking  rather  hard 
at  Helena.  She  did  not  think  she  flirted,  but  with  one's 
own  daughter,  it  is  so  hard  to  know. 


70  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Who  introduced  you  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Mrs.  Shovell,"  said  Helena.     "  I  asked  her  to." 

"  You  asked  f  " 

"  I  get  so  tired  of  dancing  with  people  smaller  than 
myself,"  explained  Helena,  "  and  having  to  do  all  the 
work.  With  a  man  like  Mr.  Ingestre,  you  can  really  let 
yourself  go.  It's  glorious." 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  having  digested  this  in 
turn,  "is  Mrs.  Shovell?" 

"Oh,  Mother  dear,  how  you  forget  people,"  said 
Helena.  "  She's  the  girl  the  Weyburns  call  Violet,  who 
was  with  them  at  that  concert  at  Regent's  Hall.  Dark, 
with  white  fur."  She  waited.  "  Oh,  you  can't  have  for- 
gotten. She  read  the  program  to  the  awful  old  lady,  the 
deaf  one  who  sits  in  the  front  row."  She  waited  again. 
"  Oh,  Mother  dear!  The  girl  you  called  conceited,  and 
said  she  contradicted  you.  She  really  only  agreed  with 
Harold  when  he  did,"  added  Helena,  "  but  she  does  things 
rather  decidedly,  so  you  minded." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  recollecting  her  own  stric- 
tures at  once,  and  the  object  of  them  by  the  way.  "  Yes, 
indeed!" 

"  Harold  hasn't  forgotten,"  said  Helena. 

"  She's  about  the  only  female  of  sense  I  ever  talked 
to,"  said  Harold  unexpectedly,  from  where  he  appeared 
to  be  deep  in  a  yellow-backed  novel.  Mrs.  Falkland 
gasped,  but  since  it  was  Harold,  submitted.  The  new 
generation,  in  the  person  of  Harold,  was  too  much  for 
Mrs.  Falkland.  Helena  she  still  could  manage  more  or 
less. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  pick  up  all  sorts  of  people, 
Helena,"  she  said,  "  without  consulting  me.  I  didn't  care 
for  that  girl's  manners  at  all,  and  if  the  Weyburns  do 
bring  her  to  one  concert,  there's  no  necessity  to  know  her 
again." 

"  But  I'm  always  meeting  her,"  said  Helena.  "  I  can't 
think  how  you  have  missed  her,  Mother,  really,  for  she 


THE  ASPIRANT  71 

goes  to  all  the  dances.  And  you  can't  keep  on  smiling 
and  saying  nothing,  especially  when  you  tidy  your  hair 
at  the  same  glass." 

"  Oh,  that's  what  happened,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  So  I  just  mentioned  she  had  the  loveliest  chain 
I  had  ever  seen :  and  she  said  she  was  thinking  the  same 
about  my  hair :  so  next  time  I  saw  her,  I  sat  down  by  her 
on  purpose,  naturally." 

"Naturally,  since  she  flattered  you.    Well?" 

"  Well,  we  talked  about  people,  as  you  do ;  and  I  no- 
ticed she  called  Mr.  Ingestre  by  his  Christian  name." 

"Oh,  does  she?"  said  Mrs.  Falkland. 

"  Most  people  seem  to,"  said  Helena.  "  He's  that  kind 
of  man.  So  I  said  I  wished  she'd  introduce  me, —  joking, 
you  know.  But  presently  when  we  were  talking  about 
other  quite  serious  things,  he  came  up  behind  her.  So 
she  asked  him  if  he  had  a  dance  left, —  and  then  she 
asked  me  if  I  had  one, —  carelessly.  She  did  it  beauti- 
fully, he  couldn't  have  guessed.  So  there  we  were,  that's 
all." 

"  She  had  no  business  to  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland. 
"  And  you  ought  to  come  to  me  when  you  are  not  danc- 
ing, you  know  that." 

"  I  know  they  do  in  books  —  like  '  Persuasion '  and 
'  Evelina/  "  said  Helena,  biting  her  lip.  "  I  didn't  happen 
to  see  you,  Mother  dear.  And  Mrs.  Shovell  is  married, 
though  she  doesn't  look  it." 

Mrs.  Falkland  pondered,  and  glanced  at  Harold. 
Harold  was  deep  in  his  book. 

"  I  gather,  dear,"  she  said,  "  that  Mr.  Ingestre  is  a 
man  you  have  to  be  rather  careful  with." 

"  I'm  sure  he  is,"  said  Helena.  Being  entreated  to 
explain  — "  Well,  he's  a  perfectly  terrible  flirt,  anyone  can 
see.  That's  why  I  was  rather  surprised  when  you  said 
just  now  he  was  married." 

This  betrayed  such  innocence,  in  combination  with  its 
surprising  ease,  that  Mrs.  Falkland  felt  inclined  to  drop 


72  THE  ACCOLADE 

the  subject  altogether.  She  would  have  been  better  ad- 
vised to  do  so. 

"  Did  he  try  to  flirt  with  you  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Well,  just  at  the  end,  he  began  to,"  said  Helena. 
"  He  was  bored  to  begin  with,  and  rather  cross." 

"Cross,  was  he?    Why?" 

"  Mother  dear,  how  can  I  tell  ?  I  had  an  idea  he  really 
wanted  Mrs.  Shovell  for  that  dance;  and  she  dodged, 
and  substituted  me." 

"  What  made  you  think  that?  " 

"  Something  in  his  tone  when  he  asked  if  he  might  have 
the  pleasure;  and  the  way  he  looked  at  her  across  me, 
when  we  were  sitting  out." 

"  So  you  played  second  fiddle  to  that  girl,  did  you  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Falkland,  who  was,  as  need  not  be  said,  im- 
mensely proud  of  Helena. 

"  He  was  quite  polite,"  said  Helena,  "  but  tired.  Older 
than  I  thought, —  I  began  to  be  sorry  I  had  ventured. 
Rather  grand, —  he  drooped  his  eyes  and  said  the  proper 
things.  When  I'm  nervous,  you  know,  I'm  silly.  I  ex- 
pect he  thought  me  a  fair  idiot.  Anyhow  I  am,  com- 
pared to  her." 

"  You  are,"  said  Harold. 

"  Don't  startle  one  so,  Harold,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland 
sharply.  "  Your  sister  is  not  an  idiot,  she  has  sense 
enough  to  know  better."  She  resumed  mildness.  "  I 
am  glad,  my  dear,  Mr.  Ingestre  said  proper  things,  at 
least  to  start  with.  May  I  hear  how  he  concluded  ?  " 

"  Mother  dear,  I  really  can't !  "  Helena  laughed  again. 
"  Two  in  the  morning,  you  know.  You  must  make  allow- 
ances." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland.  "  A  married  man ! 
Did  you  encourage  him  ?  " 

The  girl  blushed  for  the  first  time :  with  pure  indigna- 
tion, but  her  mother  thought,  with  shame. 

"  Do  let  her  alone,  Mother,"  said  Harold.  There  was 
a  pause. 


THE  ASPIRANT  73 

"  I  didn't  know  he  was  married  then,"  said  Helena, 
her  young  chin  rather  high.  "  Mrs.  Shovell  had  not  men- 
tioned it,  and  men  don't  wear  wedding-rings.  I  turned 
extremely  stiff,  when  he  began  to  do  it,  and  as  unpleasant 
as  I  dared.  He  is  a  slightly  —  what  shall  I  say?  —  im- 
posing person,  even  when  he  talks  nonsense.  I  don't 
know  how  he  manages  the  two  things,  I'm  sure." 

"Is  he  good-looking?"  said  the  unwise  parent. 

"I  hardly  know,"  said  Helena,  suddenly  calm.  "  I 
hardly  looked  at  him.  You  don't  while  you  are  dancing : 
and  after,  it  was  dark." 

Mrs.  Falkland  had  sent  Helena  only  to  the  "  very 
nicest "  schools,  which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  the  girl 
had  been  hedged,  in  so  far  as  was  possible,  into  the  ideals 
of  the  last  generation,  not  her  own.  Helena  was  really, 
had  her  mother  been  able  to  divine  it,  a  triumph  over 
these  highly  unnatural  conditions,  owing  to  a  fortunate 
natural  balance  within  her  of  high  spirit,  and  good  sense. 
It  might  have  relieved  Mrs.  Falkland  to  know  that  Helena 
had  snubbed  the  conquering  Mr.  Ingestre,  towards  the 
close  of  that  dance  interval,  with  a  quiet  competence  some 
older  women  would  have  envied  her:  not  at  all  aggres- 
sively,—  simply  by  making  her  genuine  innocence  and 
dignity  apparent  in  every  gentle  answer  she  gave  him ; 
with  the  result  first,  that  she  caught  John's  whole  atten- 
tion, which  he  had  not  even  granted  her  before :  and  sub- 
sequently that  he  liked,  respected,  and  remembered  her. 

Helena  was  making  this  same  impression,  that  of  inno- 
cent dignity,  broadcast  during  her  first  London  season. 
By  the  effect  it  produced,  one  might  guess  it  to  be  rather 
an  unusual  combination.  The  dignity  was  physical 
partly,  for  Helena  was  tall,  but  it  went  deeper  than  exter- 
nals. She  had  an  air,  not  only  outwardly,  of  looking  over 
people's  heads:  the  least  trifle  abstracted,  though  so 
cordial  and  kind.  Helena  was,  to  be  her  own  mind, 
"  very  selfish,"  nursing  her  secret  ambition  constantly, 


74  THE  ACCOLADE 

and  looking  beyond  the  occupations  and  amusements  her 
kind  friends  provided  for  her.  Dreams  of  fame  visited 
Helena,  during  nights  when  her  young  limbs,  tired  with 
dancing,  lay  at  ease.  She  saw  herself  moving  multitudes, 
among  flowers,  on  a  lofty  and  brilliantly  lighted  stage. 
She  felt  strong  in  herself  the  power  for  such  emotion, 
the  need  to  express  it  greatly  before  the  world.  She 
read  and  studied  with  secret  ardor,  and  turned  every  little 
incident  that  occurred  in  her  outer  life  daily,  to  account  in 
the  service  of  her  fixed  idea.  It  was  her  joy  and  her  tor- 
ment, as  all  such  obsessions  are ;  it  meant  more  to  her,  she 
trembled  to  confess,  than  her  religion.  She  believed  it 
was  the  great  secret  to  which  life  was  bearing  her  —  or 
half  believed  it.  At  rare  moments  only,  she  had  doubts. 
She  tried  not  to  talk  of  it,  to  advertise  all  kinds  of  other 
interests  before  an  indifferent  and  frivolous  world ;  but 
the  least  show  of  real  sympathy  with  her  dear  dream  was 
apt  to  unlock  the  torrent  of  her  confidence  suddenly. 

This  was  what  had  occurred,  on  the  night  of  that  dance 
she  described  to  her  mother.  Helena  had  got  well  ahead, 
further  than  Mrs.  Falkland  guessed,  in  schemes  for  her 
own  advancement,  that  most  interesting  evening,  owing 
to  the  pleasant  impulsiveness  of  youth  in  following  up  an 
acquaintance  that  strikes  them  as  useful  and  agreeable. 
That  was  how  young  Mrs.  Shovell  struck  Helena, 
promptly.  Compared  with  the  elaborate  methods  of  Mrs. 
Falkland  and  her  friends,  Miss  Falkland's  were  of  an 
attractive  simplicity.  She  looked  at  Violet,  two  or  three 
times,  and  determined  she  was  "  nice."  She  resolved  to 
love  her  after  about  ten  minutes'  acquaintance.  After 
about  ten  minutes  more  of  testing  her  general  utility,  she 
determined  to  grasp  and  use  her  as  a  stepping-stone  to  her 
heart's  desire.  The  way  was  plain,  since  Mrs.  Shovell 
knew  crowds  of  clever  and  thrilling  people,  and  could  — 
obviously  to  Helena  —  get  what  she  liked  out  of  any  of 
them,  being  so  pretty  and  so  profoundly  experienced. 
(Violet  had  been  married  four  years.)  Miss  Falkland 


THE  ASPIRANT  75 

was  gentle  and  had  charming  manners:  but  her  general 
attitude  was  — "  Kindly  do  this  for  me  at  once,  since  you 
can," —  so  of  course  Mrs.  Shovell  laughed,  and  submitted 
to  the  necessity. 

It  seemed,  she  saw  several  possible  ways  open  to 
Helena's  heart's  desire,  "  if  Helena's  mother  cared." 
Helena  thereupon  conveyed  that  her  father  "  cared  "  more 
than  her  mother,  unfortunately, —  her  mother  was  merely 
recoiling  backward  before  the  inevitable.  Things  at 
home  were  very  difficult,  and  Helena  was,  of  course,  op- 
pressed. She  did  not,  however,  it  suddenly  came  to  light, 
despair  of  getting  round  Mother. 

Violet  suggested  she  should  accomplish  this  process 
before  they  went  any  further  in  concert.  In  the  mean- 
time, she  would  "  sound "  John  Ingestre,  and  other 
knowledgeable  persons  of  her  acquaintance.  Helena 
gazed  at  her,  overawed  by  the  coincidence,  but  not  sur- 
prised. It  was  only  another  flash  of  the  Providence  that 
guided  her.  All  things  in  her  world  worked  together  for 
good.  Of  course,  she  had  already  had  the  idea  that 
young  Mr.  Ingestre  was  a  person  of  power  as  well  as  of 
charm.  The  way  he  "  drooped  his  eyes  "  alone  suggested 
it,  not  to  mention  his  "  imposing  "  manner  of  talking  non- 
sense. To  be  reassured,  in  her  first  instinct  towards  him, 
by  a  common  friend,  who  called  him  familiarly  by  his  first 
name,  was  delightful. 

Helena  went  home  to  blissful  dreams  that  night;  and 
before  she  slept  to  an  innocent  train  of  reverie,  known  to 
girlhood,  half  glowing  memory,  half  moonlight  conjec- 
ture :  unhampered  by  a  backward  thought,  since  men  "  do 
not  wear  wedding-rings,"  and  she  had  not  then  guessed 
he  was  married. 

in 

Mrs.  Falkland  was  one  of  the  excellent  people  who, 
while  being  extremely  sure  of  their  own  opinion,  seem 
born  to  be  deluded. 


76  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Oh,  dear  no,  boy  and  girl  merely,"  was  Mrs.  Falk- 
land's classical  answer,  when  approached  with  leading 
questions  on  the  subject  of  her  daughter  and  Mr. 
Auberon,  of  the  India  Office.  But  she  said  it  with  a  cer- 
tain manner,  and  a  certain  smile,  that  would  have  out- 
raged both  young  people,  had  they  known :  and  her  usual 
addition,  that  Quentin  was  "  such  a  dear  boy,"  would  not 
have  improved  matters. 

The  fact  was,  that  Mrs.  Falkland  began  to  see  in  Quen- 
tin, not  only  a  rising  man  with  a  notable  father, —  Colonel 
Auberon  was  gazetted  Major-General  that  year, —  but  a 
real  resource,  a  very  present  help  in  the  troublous  tussle 
with  her  daughter.  His  remarks  in  response  to  her 
periodic  fusses  over  Helena  were  always  sensible,  though 
brief.  He  certainly  listened  to  her,  which  Harold,  as  a 
rule  did  not.  He  did  not,  like  Harold,  and  her  husband 
very  frequently,  say  Helena  was  all  right,  and  read  the 
paper.  He  took  in  Helena's  case,  or  seemed  to,  with  a 
far-reaching  look  in  his  eyes  that  was  flattering,  and  often 
made  an  agreeable  remark.  Beyond  that,  he  had  a  way 
of  remembering  what  she  told  him,  and  sometimes, — 
rather  disconcertingly, —  quoted  her  own  words  to  her- 
self. Altogether,  Mrs.  Falkland  thought  him  a  dear  boy, 
refused  entirely  to  let  him  leave  her  roof,  and  insisted 
on  weaving  all  about  him  her  maternal  hopes,  as  she 
thought  in  secret.  Mrs.  Falkland  could,  as  a  fact,  keep 
nothing  secret  long. 

Quentin,  who  was  genuinely  grateful  to  her,  bore  her 
little  follies  patiently,  as  a  rule ;  but  she  was  rather  harder 
to  bear  than  usual,  the  day  she  inveigled  him  into  paying 
the  call  upon  young  Mrs.  Ingestre.  Owing  to  Harold 
and  Helena,  persistently  on  his  side,  he  did  not  often  have 
to  suffer  her  interference;  but  Harold  and  Helena  were 
out  riding  that  afternoon,  and  so  Quentin  fell  into  her 
hands.  Quentin's  parents  had  been  friends  of  Ursula's, 
so  the  Captain  had  informed  her:  and  besides,  she  liked 
showing  him  off. 


THE  ASPIRANT  77 

'''  They  are  fashionable  people,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland  of 
the  Ingestres,  "  and  artistic.  I  hear  they  go  in  for  art 
and  the  drama,  particularly  that.  I  have  an  idea  Mrs. 
Ingestre  may  be  helpful  about  dear  Helena,  and  give  us 
some  sound  advice.  They  are  at  least  sure  to  have  first 
hand  knowledge  of  Stage-land,  as  to  which  I  admit  my 
ignorance."  She  smiled  benevolently. 

"  I  see,"  said  Quentin.  "  It's  a  pity  Miss  Falkland 
can't  go  instead  of  me,  isn't  it?  I  really  know  nothing  of 
the  lady.  Of  course  I've  heard  of  General  Thynne,"  he 
proceeded,  fearing  he  had  been  uncivil.  "  My  father  and 
uncles  had  a  feud  with  the  Thynnes,  once,  and  besieged 
their  barn.  But  this  Miss  Thynne  wasn't  in  existence 
then,  any  more  than  I  was.  The  feuds  of  our  parents 
are  nothing  to  us,  not  blood-feuds,  are  they?" 

"  It  makes  something  to  talk  about,"  said  Mrs.  Falk- 
land cheerfully.  "  I  consider  it  kind  of  you  to  come  with 
me,  Quentin,  since  it  may,  you  see,  help  dear  Helena." 

Quentin  was  silent,  overborne.  He  had  no  means  of 
dealing  with  remarks  of  that  sort  that  was  both  polite  and 
politic,  so  he  let  them  alone.  He  would  sooner  have  had 
things  straight  with  her,  as  to  the  plain  and  pleasant  terms 
of  comradeship  he  enjoyed,  and  hoped  to  enjoy,  with  Miss 
Falkland :  but  if  Falkland  did  not  see  fit  to  straighten  his 
mother's  mind  on  the  subject,  he  could  not  do  so. 

Mrs.  Falkland's  laborious  generalship,  however,  in  a 
losing  cause,  amused  him  as  spectator:  for,  like  Harold, 
he  "  backed  "  Miss  Falkland  to  get  what  she  wanted  with 
no  generalship  at  all ;  and  he  found  more  entertainment, 
during  the  diplomatic  visit  to  young  Mrs.  Ingestre,  than 
he  had  expected.  Quentin  had  often  heard  of  the 
strategy  spent  in  storming  a  social  citadel,  but  he  had 
never  studied  its  methods  in  operation.  Marvelous  and 
mysterious,  it  seemed  to  him.  Half  the  time  he  won- 
dered what  the  ladies  were  at,  and  what  could  be  the  good 
of  it.  Mrs.  Falkland  was  plainly  eager  to  dig  out  facts 
about  Mrs.  Ingestre;  but  then  as  Mrs.  Ingestre  was  far 


;8  THE  ACCOLADE 

from  eager  to  dig  out  facts  about  Mrs.  Falkland,  and 
reticent  about  her  own,  nobody  got  very  far.  He  himself 
was  of  little  or  no  use  in  the  main  issue,  though  he  played 
the  siege  of  Mrs.  Ingestre's  family  barn  for  what  it  was 
worth  during  the  preliminaries ;  but  he  looked  on  at  every 
stage  of  the  contest  with  intelligent  interest,  so  we  may 
be  safe  in  giving  his  view. 

It  was  clear  to  him  from  the  first  that,  whatever  it  was 
that  Mrs.  Falkland  really  wanted,  she  was  outmatched  by 
her  younger  opponent.  There  was  that  in  Mrs.  Ingestre's 
appearance,  for  all  its  elegant  restraint,  that  implied  she 
would  put  up  a  good  fight  in  defense  of  any  citadel  of 
which  she  had  been  elected  chatelaine.  She  was  a  tall, 
fair,  tired-looking  girl  of  something  over  thirty,  most 
correctly  gowned  and  mannered, —  a  type  that  is  called 
pretty  by  three-fourths  of  mankind,  and  smart  by  the 
remaining  quarter.  Her  house,  or  at  least  such  part  of  it 
as  she  exhibited,  was  correct  as  well.  Her  husband's 
quarters  were  not  so,  but  Ursula  did  not  exhibit  them. 
Mrs.  Falkland's  leading  questions  on  the  domestic  tack  led 
to  no  fruition,  and  if  young  family  existed,  it  was  cer- 
tainly well  in  hand.  So  were  the  servants,  for  the  quiet 
of  the  dark  London  house  was  profound.  In  the  quiet 
Mrs.  Ingestre's  sharp-edged,  rather  toneless  voice  wor- 
ried Quentin,  and  he  found  himself  treading  with  circum- 
spection in  the  least  thing  he  said.  This  is  a  healthy 
boy's  tribute  to  nerves,  invariably. 

His  first,  or  romantic,  theory  of  her  was  that  the  "fash- 
ionable "  Ingestre  family  despised  and  trampled  the  heir's 
young  wife :  but  that  would  not  do.  He  had  to  revise  it 
when  it  came  to  light  that  the  flowers,  the  silver,  the 
tapestry,  the  paintings,  almost  every  beautiful  object  in 
the  room,  had  come  by  way  of  "  John's  people," —  John's 
father,  or  his  mother  still  more  commonly.  This  looked 
as  though  she  were  well-treated  by  them,  or  even  spoiled. 
Yet  Ursula  did  not  boast  of  their  favor:  she  seemed  if 
anything  impatient  of  it, —  restive.  She  held  Mrs.  Falk- 


THE  ASPIRANT  79 

land's  too  evident  curiosity  on  the  subject  at  bay  with 
great  determination  and  real  dignity,  her  manner  remain- 
ing a  model  of  politeness  the  whole  time. 

"  Old  Mrs.  Ingestre  is  a  great  invalid,  I  believe,"  said 
Mrs.  Falkland,  who  seemed  to  have  armed  herself  with 
information. 

"  John's  mother  is,"  said  Ursula.  "  There  is  an  older 
Mrs.  Ingestre  still,  you  know.  His  grandmother  lives 
with  them  now." 

"  You  don't  say  so, —  quite  patriarchal,"  said  Mrs. 
Falkland. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ursula,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  John,  and 
his  father,  and  his  grandmother,  are  always  fighting. 
Two  of  them  fight,  that  is :  the  other  takes  a  side." 

Quentin  laughed,  and  Mrs.  Falkland  said — "  Then  you 
have  to  be  peace-maker,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  said  Ursula.  "  I  leave  that  to  my 
mother-in-law,  she's  used  to  it.  Besides,  it  amuses  them," 
she  added  languidly. 

"  Your  husband  is  very  busy,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs. 
Falkland  presently,  taking  the  field. 

"  John  busy  ?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  In  town,  he  hasn't 
much  to  do.  He  goes  about  a  good  deal,  of  course,"  she 
added,  setting  her  lips  nervously  as  she  made  the  tea, 
"  and  rides  as  much  as  he  can,  and  goes  to  concerts,  and 
his  club." 

"  My  daughter  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Falkland. 

"Really?  "said  Ursula. 

"  Only  a  dance,  and  some  time  since.  Mr.  Ingestre  has 
probably  forgotten." 

"  There  are  such  dozens  of  dances,  aren't  there  ?  "  said 
Ursula.  There  ensued  a  pause, —  for  cream  and  cake, 
and  so  forth,  such  as  occurs  in  these  campaigns. 

"  We  are  in  difficulties  about  dear  Helena,"  Mrs.  Falk- 
land resumed,  "  and  people  keep  assuring  us  that  Mr. 
Ingestre  is  just  the  person  we  need  to  help  us." 


8o  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  John  is  ?  "  Up  went  Ursula's  eyebrows.  "  I'm  sure 

he  would  be  very  glad "  She  stopped  short  with  a 

slight  laugh.  "  Excuse  me,  I  was  trying  to  think  of  any 
way  in  which  John  could  be  useful.  I'm  unable  to 
guess." 

"  Isn't  he  deep  in  with  all  sorts  of  wonderful  people  in 
Stage-land  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  playful  too. 

"  Stage  ?  Oh,  I  hardly  know.  I  dare  say."  This  was 
damping. 

"  Helena  thinks  she  can  act,  you  know.  We  thought 
that  possibly " 

"  Lots  of  girls  think  they  can  act,  don't  they  ?  "  said 
Ursula. 

This  was  more  damping  still.  Mrs.  Falkland  boasted 
of  her  daughter's  proficiency  a  little,  and  repeated  compli- 
ments that  had  been  paid  her,  but  with  slight  effect. 
Mrs.  Ingestre  was  politely  interested,  that  was  all.  Mrs. 
Falkland  began  privately  to  accuse  that  stupid  Mr.  Sykes 
of  exaggerating  Johnny's  influence, —  his  wife  thought 
nothing  of  it,  evidently.  Quentin,  feeling  he  must  make 
one  effort,  in  decency,  picked  up  the  standard  as  she 
dropped  it.  He  made  a  general  observation,  and  alluded 
aptly  to  the  actor-manager  Mitchell. 

"  Oh,  he's  a  horrid  man,"  said  Ursula  at  once.  "  I 
shouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  him." 

"Horrid?    In  what  sense?" 

"  Oh,  rude  and  vulgar  and  pretentious :  the  worst  sort." 

"Wasn't  he  mentioned  for  a  knighthood?"  said  Mrs. 
Falkland. 

"  Money,"  said  Ursula  simply.  Nor,  beyond  this, 
would  she  gossip,  though  she  had  the  air  of  knowing 
more  than  she  said. 

"His  wife?"  ventured  Quentin.  For  Mitchell's  wife 
had  borne  a  name  of  note, —  a  really  mighty  name. 

"His  wife  is  rather  worse, —  a  clever  actress,  of 
course,"  she  admitted  mechanically.  "  Did  you  ever  see 
her  Hermione?  —  wonderful,  ...  I  hope  your  father 


THE  ASPIRANT  81 

kept  clear  of  the  plague  area,  Mr.  Auberon.  I  can't  re- 
member if  it  touched  his  district.  I've  two  or  three 
uncles  out  there,  so  I  ought  to  know :  but  I'm  afraid  I 
neglect  my  correspondence  nowadays,  and  I've  lost  my 
Indian  geography." 

If  she  wished  to  indicate  that  she  kept  clear  of  the 
plague  area  of  her  husband's  acquaintance,  she  certainly 
succeeded.  Quentin  could  not  admire  her  as  much  as 
Mrs.  Falkland;  he  had  an  idea  a  wife  should  back  her 
husband  up.  Ursula  was  giving  him  away  at  every  word, 
more  by  tone  and  manner  than  by  anything  definitely  said. 

"  I  expect  you're  busy,"  he  said,  in  the  usual  formula, 
dropping  Helena's  quest  in  turn.  It  seemed  hopeless, 
really,  with  the  front  she  offered  of  perfectly  courteous 
unconcern. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  really  much  to  do,"  she  answered  in- 
stantly. "  At  any  rate,  I  have  heaps  of  time."  Quentin's 
business  instinct  approved  the  answer.  It  was  rare,  he 
knew,  for  the  really  useless  people  so  to  plead.  They 
plead  as  a  rule  the  contrary,  that  they  are  "  so  busy,  no 
time  at  all."  He  wondered  at  once  what  her  real  inter- 
ests were,  and  discovered  later,  through  his  aunt,  that 
she  was  an  active  charitable  organizer. 

"  Do  you  play  ?  "  he  suggested,  his  eyes  roving  towards 
the  piano. 

"  I  play  a  little,"  she  said,  glancing  that  way  too. 
"  Used  to,  that  is,  at  home.  My  husband's  got  a  better 
piano  in  his  room.  All  his  family  go  in  for  music, —  I 
don't  pretend  to,  much.  I  hear  as  much  as  I  can,  of 
course,  one  loses  ground  so,  if  one  doesn't.  Especially 
nowadays, —  these  new  men  do  such  surprising  things. 
.  .  .  Do  you  care  for  music?"  she  added,  after  just  the 
right  interval. 

She  had  the  manner  of  bringing  the  talk  back  to  the 
conventional  impersonal  line,  with  relief.  Any  observer 
of  experience  would  have  guessed  by  that  alone  she  could 
not  be  a  happy  woman, —  the  impression  reached  Quen- 


82  THE  ACCOLADE 

tin  vaguely.  Mrs.  Falkland  seemed  wholly  impervious  to 
such  hints  of  sensitiveness  in  her  hostess,  and  pursued  her 
with  relentless  enquiry  to  the  close.  Towards  the  end  of 
their  allotted  time,  it  struck  Quentin  with  something  of  a 
shock  that  she  was  probing,  or  prying,  deliberately,  and 
he  scented  her  danger  in  Mrs.  Ingestre's  aspect,  though 
her  tone  remained  unchangingly  tired  and  cool. 

They  were  on  the  subject  of  common  acquaintance, 
which  was  no  harm  in  itself,  only  Mrs.  Falkland  talked  of 
young  women  exclusively.  Quentin  knew  most  of  those 
she  mentioned  merely  as  names,  having  heard  Helena  and 
Harold  use  them.  Since  he  was  thus  entirely  out  of  it, 
and  Mrs.  Ingestre  increasingly  bored,  as  was  evident,  by 
the  subject,  he  rather  wondered  Mrs.  Falkland  should 
press  it  as  she  did.  There  was  the  elder  Miss  Weyburn, 
for  instance,  one  of  the  prettiest  of  the  season's  debu- 
tantes, said  to  be  "  so  amusing." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  she's  amusing,"  said  Ursula.  "  John 
seems  to  think  so, —  he  says  there's  nothing  she  won't  say 
if  she's  put  to  it.  But  there  you  are.  These  new  girls 
score  by  saying  just  what  most  people  stop  short  of,  don't 
they?  And,  of  course,  if  they  are  as  handsome  as  Bar- 
bara, it's  called  original." 

"  That's  meant  for  you,  Quentin,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland 
playfully. 

"  Oh,"  said  Ursula,  with  a  slight  smile,  and  throwing 
a  glance  in  the  same  direction,  "  but  Miss  Falkland  is  not 
that  kind,  I'm  sure." 

Quentin  waited,  naturally,  for  Mrs.  Falkland  to  correct 
the  insinuation  conveyed  in  this;  but  Mrs.  Falkland 
merely  smiled  maternally, —  just  like  her, —  and  pro- 
ceeded. She  proceeded  to  Mrs.  Shovell,  another  name  he 
knew,  simply  from  its  repetition  at  the  Falkland  dining- 
table. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  Violet,"  said  Ursula.  "  She's  a  kind 
of  connection  of  John's,  didn't  you  know?  They're  a 


THE  ASPIRANT  83 

most  confusing  family, —  second  cousin  I  suppose  she  is, 
since  her  mother's  name  was  the  same  as  his." 

"Not  been  long  married,  has  she?"  said  Mrs.  Falk- 
land. "Has  she  children?" 

"  One,"  said  Ursula,  looking  at  her  rings. 

"A  boy?"  said  Mrs.  Falkland. 

"  Not  a  boy,"  said  Ursula. 

"  She's  very  artistic,  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Falk- 
land. 

"  She  plays  well,"  said  Ursula,  glancing  once  at  Quen- 
tin.  "  She's  managed  to  keep  it  up.  Dresses  rather  well 
too.  Do  you  think  her  pretty?" 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland.  "  Effective  perhaps  in  her 
way,  but  nothing  pretty  about  her." 

"  You  won't  find  everybody  agree  with  you,"  said 
Ursula.  "  John,  for  instance,—  good  thing  he's  not  here. 
He'd  make  you  take  that  back,  fight  over  every  feature 
in  turn.  He  loves  that  sort  of  discussion, —  dissec- 
tion— "  her  lips  met  in  her  nervous,  rather  haughty 
fashion, — "  but  I  never  see  the  use.  Tastes  differ,  don't 
they?  It's  no  use  arguing  about  appearances,  piecemeal 
or  otherwise.  Either  you  like  the  whole  result,  or  you 
don't.  And  I  tell  John  —  you  don't  need  to  be  an  artist 
to  be  quite  sure." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland  warmly. 

"  I'd  sooner  know  why  I  like  things,"  said  Quentin, 
"  and  class  the  general  result.  Not  necessarily  define  it, 
you  know,  you  can't  always,  but  class.  You  remember 
better  if  you  want  to  refer  to  it  later  on." 

Ursula  looked  at  him.  "  Then  you'd  back  John,"  she 
said.  "  John  goes  in  for  classing  too.  Men  always  back 
one  another  anyhow,  don't  they,  Mrs.  Falkland?  And 
they  never  look  at  women  at  least  as  we  do.  I  am  hardly 
ever  able  to  agree  about  a  woman  with  John, —  do  you 
find  the  same  with  your  husband?  " 

Mrs.  Falkland  was  impressed.    That  was  the  way  to 


84  THE  ACCOLADE 

do  it,  she  was  certain.  She  gave  Ursula  high  marks, 
being  so  steadily  rebuffed  by  her  in  the  slight  imperti- 
nence of  her  latter  questions.  The  girl  might  be  born  a 
Thynne,  but  she  had  caught  the  great  manner  perfectly. 
She  was  well-bred,  and  ill-used, —  neglected,  at  least, — 
but  she  did  not  complain,  nor  try  to  conceal  the  obvious. 
She  stood  on  her  own  deserts,  which  were  evidently  con- 
siderable, and  shamed  him, —  it  was  to  be  hoped.  She  did 
not  look  unhappy, —  she  looked  handsome  and  quiet,  and 
capable  to  a  degree, —  though  she  did  not  disturb  herself 
much  over  the  tea-distribution,  being  far  from  a  fussy 
kind  of  girl.  Nor  did  she  ring  for  servants,  as  Mrs. 
Falkland  in  her  place  would  have  done,  having  no  doubt 
servants  to  spare.  But  then  Quentin  was  there,  and  of 
course  she  used  him,  since  Quentin's  manners  were  so 
nice. 

Mrs.  Falkland  was  really  thankful,  in  the  event,  that 
she  had  brought  him,  for  as  Ursula  trumped  her  social 
cards,  one  by  one,  with  languid  efficiency,  she  began  to 
feel,  in  the  matter  of  resources,  rather  denuded.  But 
Quentin  talked  in  all  the  pauses,  with  that  interesting 
maner  of  his  of  knowing  far  more  things  than  were 
necessary,  and  that  nice  carelessness  —  secure  in  any 
society  —  of  Oxford  young  men.  Mrs.  Ingestre  could 
not  trump  him,  nor  did  she  seem  to  want  to.  She  even 
asked  for  information,  more  than  once:  and  she  looked 
at  him  a  good  deal,  especially  when  they  were  on  the  sub- 
ject of  family  likenesses :  for  it  seemed  she  remembered 
Quentin's  father, —  Captain  Hugh,  as  she  called  him, — 
very  well. 

Confidence,  Mrs.  Falkland  had  no  doubt,  would  come 
in  time, —  since  she  was  now  determined  to  make  a  friend 
of  Ursula.  She  was  old  enough  to  advise  the  girl,  and 
had  fully  enough  wifely  vexations  of  her  own  to  sympa- 
thize. Men  with  tempers  were  very  trying, —  Mrs.  Falk- 
land conceived  young  Mr.  Ingestre  as  having  a  temper, 
since  he  differed  so  grievously  with  his  father,  as  his  wife 


THE  ASPIRANT  85 

confessed.  Captain  Falkland  had  a  temper  too,  which  he 
showed  at  least  once  a  year,  when  his  lumbago  was  very 
bad.  There  was  already  a  point  of  sympathy.  And  even 
in  the  matter  of  Helena,  though  disappointed  for  dear 
Helena's  sake,  of  course,  Mrs.  Falkland  could  exult  in  the 
support  Mrs.  Ingestre  tacitly  offered  her  in  her  own 
original  attitude:  that  of  condescension  to  all  forms  of 
art,  and  frank  contumely  for  the  actor's. 

"  She  strikes  me  as  a  singularly  perfect  character,"  said 
Mrs.  Falkland  to  her  husband,  later  that  evening.  "  Per- 
fect, and  pathetic  too.  I  can't  describe  the  impression 
she  made  upon  me.  She  is  flippant  and  amusing  on  the 
surface,  like  so  many  of  these  smart  girls,  but  I  have  a 
feeling  of  depths  beneath.  She  could  be  beautifully 
serious.  As  for  style,  she  is  what  I  call  queenly.  I 
should  think  she  is  a  rock  of  strength,  quiet  strength,  and 
one  day  her  husband  will  need  to  turn  to  her.  .  .  .  Quen- 
tin  agrees  with  me,"  she  added. 

Quentin  started  rather,  but  did  not  deny  it:  though, 
if  pressed,  he  would  have  drawn  a  distinction.  Strength 
is  a  big  word,  too  big  to  be  misused.  It  was  not  so  much 
strength  he  had  felt  in  Ursula  as  passive  resistance,  the 
resistance  of  a  rock  stiffly  wedged  against  the  teasing  of 
the  waves.  She  lacked  life  for  any  forcible  proceeding, 
he  thought,  and  she  lacked  readiness  to  be  prompt  or 
adroit  in  the  change  of  a  line  of  action.  The  true  cam- 
paigning spirit  of  her  fathers,  in  short,  was  not  in  her. 
Stupid  she  was  not,  but  he  privately  called  her  "  dense," 
nor  did  he  trouble  to  define  the  term.  Helena  came  up 
in  his  mind  as  a  contrast, —  that  was  all. 


IV 

"  John,"  said  Violet,  "  will  you  do  me  a  favor?  " 
"  For  a  consideration,"  said  Johnny. 
"  Oh,  do  be  nice !     Will  you  come  and  see  me  on  Sun- 
day afternoon?  " 


86  THE  ACCOLADE 

Johnny  considered.  "  Ursula  goes  to  church  on  Sun- 
day afternoon,"  he  observed.  "  And  I  go  to  sleep. 
We're  engaged." 

"  I  don't  want  Ursula,"  said  Violet. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  protested  Johnny.  "Then  I  really 

couldn't "  A  pause,  while  he  strolled  up  the  room. 

"Will  Shovell  be  there?" 

"Of  course.     All  of  us.     What  do  you  expect?" 

Johnny  considered  the  "  all."  He  looked  at  Violet, 
who  had  colored  slightly.  "  I  can  do  without  most  of 
you,"  he  carefully  explained,  and  departed  down  the  room 
again. 

He  was  being  as  "  tiresome "  as  he  knew  how,  this 
evening:  and  Mrs.  Shovell  had  almost  abandoned 
Helena's  cause,  perforce,  to  defend  herself.  This  was 
Johnny's  aim:  or  rather,  his  aim  was  that  Violet  should 
completely  abandon  any  ulterior  cause  she  might  have  in 
mind,  in  order  to  attend  to  him.  He  happened  to  be 
greatly  in  need  of  consolation,  Violet's  by  choice,  and  she 
kept  trying  to  head  him  off  onto  other  subjects.  It  was 
unwise  of  her. 

"  There's  Miss  Falkland "  said  Violet. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Johnny. 

"  Oh,  John !  —  you  danced  with  her.  I  introduced 
you.  Ever  so  nice." 

John  appeared  to  turn  over  the  complete  list  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, for  years  past,  before  he  arrived  at  a  solution. 

"The  little,  rough-haired  Miss  Falkland?"  he  then 
asked. 

"  Well,  nobody  but  you  would  call  her  little,"  said  Vio- 
let. "And  her  hair  is  beautiful,  simply."  She  waited. 
"  And  I  thought  she  danced  nicely,"  she  proceeded,  with 
less  decision, —  it  was  rash  to  make  assertions  on  this 
point.  However,  John  did  not  instantly  contradict  her. 

"  She's  going  on  the  stage,"  he  said.  "  Thinks  she  is. 
Ursula  told  me." 

"  Is  she  ?    Oh,  but  you  could  help  her,  then." 


THE  ASPIRANT  87 

"  Suppose  I  could  if  I  wanted.     She'll  never  do  much." 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  Violet  mildly. 

"  Oh,  she's  nothing  but  a  rough-haired  little  —  common 
girl." 

"  John ! " 

"  Same  as  all  the  rest,"  concluded  Johnny.  "  I'm  sick 
of  girls, —  too  many  of  them."  He  walked  right  away 
to  the  extreme  corner  of  the  room. 

Violet  was  silent,  conscious  that  she  was  getting  no- 
where. It  was  possible  she  should  not  have  attempted  it, 
except  that  she  saw  him  so  seldom  now.  She  leant  back, 
and  set  her  hair  straight  after  the  hurricane  it  had  re- 
cently suffered  in  the  ballroom,  waiting  his  good  pleasure 
to  be  "  nice  "  again.  He  and  she  were  engaged  in  "  sit- 
ting out," — or  rather,  she  was  sitting:  nothing  so  far 
would  induce  John.  He  was  in  the  kind  of  mood  when 
merely  to  sit  down  made  him  feel  as  though  he  were  be- 
ing entrapped  or  tricked  into  some  abandonment  of  his 
rights  to  roam  at  large. 

Violet  had  married  four  years  previously,  without  con- 
sulting Johnny, —  however,  he  approved.  He  liked  girls 
of  her  class  to  be  married,  it  gave  them  a  chance,  and 
kept  them  in  order:  there  is  a  certain  danger  in  clever 
girls  loose  about  the  world.  She  had  grown  up  pretty 
too,  as  Mrs.  Clewer  prophesied,  and  what  was  more  im- 
portant to  Johnny's  family,  she  was  a  success.  The 
Ingestres  had  all  had  a  good  idea,  in  youth,  that  she  might 
become  one, —  the  way  Markham  took  to  her  in  itself  was 
promising ;  and  the  good  idea  and  sporting  prophecy  came 
to  light  in  their  remarks  to  one  another  after  the  event. 
The  Ingestres  linked  themselves  to  success  on  instinct,  it 
was  part  of  their  genius  to  do  so;  so  they  took  note  of 
Violet,  and  looked  after  her,  whenever  her  husband  and 
her  father  gave  them  a  chance. 

This  chance  did  not  occur  so  often  as  Johnny  could 
have  wished,  especially  as  drawbacks  existed  on  his  own 
side  as  well ;  however,  he  got  out  of  that  little  difficulty  by 


88  THE  ACCOLADE 

writing  to  her.  He  loved  writing,  as  she  did.  From  the 
age  of  fourteen,  her  correspondence  with  him  had  never 
been  long  intermitted,  though  it  changed  its  style 
markedly  as  time  went  on.  Johnny  could  not  long  treat 
her  as  a  child,  troubles  on  both  sides  had  come  too  thick 
and  fast.  He  was  one  of  the  few  people  who  had  divined 
her  most  intimate  troubles,  and  she  had  repaid  him  soon 
after  her  marriage  by  divining  his.  Thus  the  equal  un- 
derstanding of  their  allied  natures  progressed,  in  spite  of 
all  Ursula  could  do  to  prevent  it, —  she  grew  to  hate  the 
sight  of  Violet's  handwriting  on  an  envelope.  Better, 
far,  that  he  should  take  his  chance  of  meeting  the  girl  in 
the  life  than  that,  she  thought,  since  chances  of  meeting 
in  London,  anyhow,  were  limited.  For  that  reason 
among  others,  Ursula  drew  her  husband  to  town  as  fre- 
quently as  might  be  from  the  country  he  preferred. 
Johnny  did  not  love  it,  but  for  one  reason  or  another,  he 
came. 

He  had  been  looking  after  Violet  this  evening,  duty- 
bound,  and  she  was  rather  tired  in  consequence.  Johnny 
had  spotted  her  turn  for  his  own  arts  in  youth :  she  was 
one  of  the  few  girls  he  knew,  outside  the  profession,  who 
could  really  dance.  Consequently  he  was  apt  to  work  her 
hard,  whenever  he  ran  across  her  on  a  ballroom  floor :  it 
was  all  to  the  good,  her  good,  since  he  instructed  her. 
Violet  was  rather  nice  to  instruct,  light  and  adroit  and 
quite  moderately  manageable.  It  was  only  her  idea  of  a 
ballroom  as  a  place  to  talk  sense  in,  that  he  rejected, 
firmly.  He  liked  talking  sense  himself  at  certain  seasons, 
but  a  sitting-out  interval  was  not  one  of  them.  Besides, 
he  did  not  happen  to  be  in  the  humor  to-night  for  any 
earthly  person's  affairs, —  except  his  own. 

She  ought  to  have  known  this,  of  course,  without  his 
telling  her ;  she  should  have  recognized  the  fact  that  she 
served  him  simply,  for  the  moment,  by  existing,  not  talk- 
ing at  all.  It  was  all  he  asked  of  her  absolutely,  until  he 
happened  to  want  to  talk  himself. 


THE  ASPIRANT  89 

Violet  existed,  for  the  moment,  in  the  deep  chair  where 
Johnny  had  deposited  her,  when  the  dancing-lesson  was 
concluded.  She  had  no  need  to  request  privacy  for  her 
interview,  because  that  was  his  own  taste  as  well.  He 
required  solitude,  with  something  nice  to  look  at,  and  an 
atmosphere  in  which  he  could  spread  himself  at  ease; 
and  what  Johnny  required,  for  himself  and  the  girl  of  the 
moment,  he  was  enabled  to  get,  even  in  the  most  crowded 
houses.  Things  and  people  gave  way  before  him,  with 
all  their  ancient  docility.  He  found  his  partner  a  nice 
quiet  place,  and  established  her  in  all  comfort,  reassuring 
her  as  to  his  general  approval  by  the  way.  Only,  having 
done  so,  his  taste  seemed  to  be  to  walk  round  her,  and  take 
excursions  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and  think,  instead  of 
sitting  affably  at  her  side.  This,  though  really  exclu- 
sively flattering  to  Violet,  and  displaying  the  friendliest 
feeling,  did  not  seem  to  come  up  to  her  expectations  of  a 
man  in  her  society.  She  ruled  in  her  young  fashion, 
nowadays,  with  more  than  a  spark  of  the  Ingestre  electric 
force.  Johnny  could  not  put  her  to  bed,  figuratively 
speaking,  with  the  ease  he  had  done  at  fourteen  years  old. 
The  little  pawn  she  was  had  risen  to  royalty  some  time 
since,  and  when  he  was  in  his  best  moods,  in  public, 
Johnny  recognized  it,  and  paid  tribute  with  the  rest.  But 
not  always.  In  privacy  and  distraction  of  mind  she  was 
still  "  the  kid  "  to  him,  and  he  tried  to  manage  her.  The 
result  was,  an  occasional  conflict  of  wills,  in  which  Violet 
was  forced  to  go  under.  Johnny  regretted  it,  but  it  was 
simply  bound  to  be  the  case. 

"  Sit  down,  John,"  she  suggested  presently. 

Johnny  did  not  answer  the  invitation,  nor  appear  to 
hear  it,  remaining  motionless,  back  turned,  in  a  distant 
corner  of  the  room.  The  chances  of  a  business  consulta- 
tion with  him,  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Falkland's  future, 
did  not  seem  brilliant,  certainly.  He  looked  cross,  or 
absent,  self -occupied  anyhow:  something  was  wrong. 
What,  Violet  had  very  little  doubt,  but  she  was  not  going 


90  THE  ACCOLADE 

to  talk  about  it :  nor,  did  she  for  a  moment  suppose,  would 
he.  He  never  complained  of  Ursula  to  her,  or  to  any- 
body. He  rarely  mentioned  his  wife,  except  formally,  or 
jesting,  as  lately:  which  was  why  Violet  was  pretty  sure 
it  was  growing  serious.  But  his  own  mother  hardly 
knew  more  than  she  did, —  John  was  extraordinarily 
quiet  about  his  closest  concerns.  That  he  was  being 
driven  slowly  to  the  limit,  by  Ursula,  she  could  only  guess, 
knowing  them  both:  the  breaking-point,  for  him,  could 
only  be  a  question  of  time.  For  that  Ursula  would  ever 
budge  an  inch  from  her  chosen  pedestal,  was  inconceiv- 
able. 

So  she  waited  for  him  to  come  round,  as  he  always 
might,  for  though  rough  and  overriding,  his  was  not  a 
sulky  temper.  And  she  watched  him  the  while,  with 
unavoidable  appreciation,  increased  by  her  own  fatigue. 
Nothing  tired  Johnny.  He  was  constantly  on  his  feet, 
when  others  sat  or  lounged,  he  seemed  to  like  the  attitude. 
Indeed,  to  look  at  him,  one  was  inclined  to  admit  it  is 
the  only  posture  for  which  man  is  suited,  he  moved  with 
such  satisfying  ease,  and  stood  —  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word  —  so  self -sufficiently.  The  clever  and  rather  brutal 
society  painter,  to  whom  John  had  been  with  the  utmost 
difficulty  induced  to  sit,  the  year  of  his  marriage,  and  who 
had  been  with  the  utmost  difficulty  induced,  in  return,  to 
look  at  him,  refused  on  sight  to  allow  him  to  sit  at  all: 
and  sent  him  down  to  posterity  swaggering  on  his  two 
feet,  with  a  dash  and  brilliance  which  "  played  the  deuce  " 
—  so  John  and  his  artist  explained  to  everybody  —  with 
the  Lely  and  Gainsborough  masterpieces  already  in  his 
father's  collection.  It  was  a  perpetual  satisfaction,  that 
portrait,  to  Johnny  and  his  artist,  though  nobody  else 
admired  it  the  least,  and  Ursula  considered  it  vulgar. 
The  brutal  painter  even  invited  himself  to  the  Hall  once, 
for  the  sole  and  avowed  purpose  of  looking  at  it :  needing 
inspiration  from  his  best  work,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  next 
outrage  on  society  he  contemplated.  Having  his  own 


THE  ASPIRANT  91 

painting  to  enjoy,  he  never  looked  again  at  Johnny:  but 
he  seemed  to  have  absorbed  his  nature  or  essence  some- 
how, not  only  pictorially:  and  he  remained  his  friend. 

"  How's  your  great-grandfather's  great  uncle  ?  "  said 
Violet.  After  all  she  was  sitting  out  with  him,  and  some- 
body must  talk. 

"  He's  just  run  away  from  his  wife,"  said  Johnny. 

She  laughed:  whereupon  he  felt  a  little  better,  and 
turned  round.  The  effort  had  been  a  lucky  one.  John 
had  always  taken  an  interest  in  the  archives  of  his  house, 
and  had  published,  some  time  since,  a  highly  irreverent 
memoir  of  a  Jacobean  ancestor,  which  had  incensed  his 
father  and  pleased  the  critics  equally,  for  it  was  ex- 
tremely witty  and  well  done.  He  was  now  intermittently 
engaged  on  another,  and  only  Violet  knew  about  it.  It 
consoled  him  to  think  she  knew.  He  approached,  by  de- 
grees, and  finally  came  to  a  stand  before  her. 

"  Do  you  carry  a  looking-glass  ?  "  she  asked  him,  not 
without  mischief.  She  was  still  putting  finishing  touches 
to  her  hair. 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny  promptly.  He  put  a  hand  under 
her  chin,  and  turned  her  face  round  to  him.  "  You've 
overdone  it,  if  anything,"  he  informed  her.  "  I  liked  it 
better  as  it  was  before." 

"  Thanks.  Now  sit  in  that  other  chair,  and  talk  to 
me." 

Johnny  stood  where  he  was,  taking  notes.  "  Beastly 
cad,  aren't  I,"  he  inquired.  "  Pulling  you  about  like  that 
in  public." 

"  You  did  not,"  she  said  at  once,  "  half  so  much  as  most 
men  do.  I  like  the  way  you  hold.  You  only  —  made 
use  of  me,  rather  cleverly." 

"  Made  use  of  you  ?  "  He  swore.  "  You  dance  di- 
vinely." 

"  No,  John, —  just  well  enough.  Don't  use  bad  words, 
it's  true.  You  were  showing  off,  just  now,  and  if  you'd 
show  me  up,  in  so  doing,  you  wouldn't  have  cared  that! " 


92  THE  ACCOLADE 

She  snapped  her  fingers.  "  When  I  play  for  you,  it's  just 
the  same.  It  always  was  in  the  very  beginning,  wasn't 
it?  If  I  get  through  without  disgracing  you,  I  ought  to  be 
thankful  to  mercy, —  and  I  am."  She  laughed,  and  in- 
vited him  again,  by  a  gesture,  to  the  chair  at  her  side. 

Johnny  did  not  touch  the  hand,  nor  look  at  it ;  nor  did 
he  smile,  he  was  looking  at  her  eyes.  "  Lord,  how  you 
understand  me,"  he  muttered.  "  What's  the  sense  of  it, 
that's  what  I  want  to  know." 

He  seemed  on  the  verge  of  going  off  again,  and  moved 
a  few  steps.  Then  he  returned,  and  flung  himself  of  a 
sudden  into  the  other  chair, —  one  of  those  free  collapses 
of  his  that  betrayed  a  stage  training  in  the  background ; 
and  exhausted  by  his  warring  emotions,  buried  his  head 
in  his  arm. 

This  was  a  little  better,  but  not  much.  He  was  feeling 
the  tyranny  of  his  fate  to-night,  most  terribly.  Ob- 
viously, Ursula  had  been  worse  than  usual.  His  present 
attitude  was  of  the  nature  of  a  broad  hint,  and  any  really 
nice  girl,  whom  he  had  tacitly  admitted  to  his  confidence, 
should  have  dropped  all  idea  but  that  of  consoling  him, 
instantly.  But  Violet  persisted  in  wrong-doing, —  she 
really  risked  her  fate. 

"  John,"  she  ventured.  "  I'm  thirsty.  Will  you  get 
me  something  to  drink?" 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.     Not  rudely,  only  abnormally  sad. 

"  Will  you  be  at  the  next  orchestral  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.  "  I'm  going  to  the  devil,  I  mean 
Devonshire,  next  Tuesday." 

"Ursula's  people?" 

"Don't  rub  it  in,"  said  Johnny.  Silence,  Violet  re- 
viewing her  resources. 

"  Have  you  a  dance  with  Helena  to-night  ?  " 

"Helena?" 

"  The  rough-haired  Miss  Falkland,"  said  Violet. 

"  Lord  knows, —  she  may.  Come  to  think  of  it,"  said 
Johnny,  with  a  sudden  happy  idea,  "  it  might  be  this." 


THE  ASPIRANT  93 

"  John !  Liar !  "  After  another  interval,  comparatively 
brief,  Mrs.  Shovell  arose.  She  had  had  enough  of  it. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  snapped  Johnny,  moving  at 
once. 

"  Back  to  the  hall, —  you  reminded  me.  They  must  be 
half-way  through.  I'd  lost  the  time,  owing  to  our  inter- 
esting conversation." 

"  Well,  who  wants  to  talk  ? "  he  growled.  "  I  only 
want  to  be  near  you.  No,  you  don't." 

He  caught,  with  a  clever  snatch,  a  floating  appendage, 
sash,  or  wisp  of  drapery :  the  kind  that  tears  easily,  and 
no  lady  wishes  to  be  torn.  It  was  a  -simple  device,  but 
like  all  Johnny's  devices,  effective.  Violet  wore  nice 
things,  as  a  rule.  She  stopped  short  and  petitioned. 

"  John !  "  she  said. 

"  Who's  the  man?  — out  with  it." 

"  My  husband." 

"  Thought  as  much.     He  can't  dance.     Sit  down." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Violet.  "  You  won't  do  what  I  want, 
and  you're  not  amusing  me,  the  least." 

"  I'm  beastly  unhappy,"  said  Johnny  simply,  "  so  I  like 
you  alongside,  that's  all.  I  don't  want  just  any  kind  of 
girl,  when  I'm  as  wretched  as  I  am  to-night.  You  might, 
I  think,  have  saved  me  explaining.  This  thing  will  tear  in 
a  minute,"  he  added,  his  eyes  running  up  the  streamer 
he  held  to  her  waist,  where  it  was  fastened.  "  Do  look 
out." 

"  You  want  to  lacerate  me  and  my  dress  as  well " 

"  I  don't  want  to  lacerate  you,  wouldn't  think  of  it.  I 
want  you  in  that  chair.  I  shan't  say  anything,  probably, 
for  hours " 


But  that's  so  dull  for  me.     Charles 


"  Charles  is  amusing  and  affectionate,  isn't  he  ?  —  Look 
out,  darling,  really,  you're  tearing  it." 

"  You  know  my  name,"  observed  Mrs.  Shovell,  crisp 
and  keen. 

He  laughed,  at  his  wickedest  and  laziest.     It  was  get- 


94  THE  ACCOLADE 

ting  very  much  past  a  joke.  He  had  always  teased  her, 
and  she  was  used  to  it  at  his  hands ;  but  this  was  teasing 
very  near  the  line.  John  had  never  yet  approached  the 
line  with  her,  though  she  was  aware  he  had  done  so  with 
others.  But  now,  full-length  in  his  chair,  looking  at  her 
under  his  innocently  drooping  eyelids,  she  could  not  feel 
so  sure.  She  mastered  her  own  temper  as  she  could. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said,  as  quietly  as  possible. 

"  Do  as  you're  told,  then,"  he  returned,  touching  the 
chair. 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,"  said  Violet.  Her  tone 
was  cold, —  misleading,  for  in  the  next  flash  she  rent  the 
cobweb  of  thin  gauze  by  which  he  detained  her,  left  it 
torn  in  his  hand,  and  started  for  the  door. 

"  The  deuce !  "  said  John,  with  surprised  amusement. 
He  had  not  expected  so  bold  a  step.  However,  she  could 
not  possibly  escape  him,  after  so  audacious  a  proceed- 
ing,—  likely!  Before  she  reached  the  door  his  strong 
arm  was  about  her,  pinioning  both  hers  to  her  side. 

"  That's  the  other  way,"  he  informed  her.  "  How  do 
you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all."  The  indignant  color  flooded  her,  quite 
beyond  her  control. 

"  I  thought  not.  ...  I  do,  awfully.  You're  alive." 
He  gripped  her  close,  to  test  it.  "  Really  alive.  Some- 
thing worth  having " 

"John!" 

"  Well,  what  do  you  bother  me  for?  "  he  said  beneath 
his  breath ;  and,  suddenly  as  he  had  grasped  her,  he  aban- 
doned his  hold  again,  flung  her  from  him,  and  retired  to 
the  extreme  end  of  the  stage  —  that  is,  the  room, —  as  he 
had  done  at  the  beginning  of  the  scene. 

After  that,  he  reviewed  his  feelings,  with  an  actor's 
instinct,  curious  as  to  what  they  were.  They  were  oddly 
mixed, —  he  had  certainly  forgotten  himself,  taken  him- 
self by  surprise.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  resumed 
control  with  an  effort  for  which  nobody  would  give  him 


THE  ASPIRANT  95 

credit, —  unless  Violet  did.  It  was  her  fault,  of  that  he 
was  persuaded:  not  that  she  had  flirted  exactly,  she  did 
not  do  that:  but  she  had  bothered  him,  got  in  his  way. 
She  had  persisted  in  her  mistaken  courses,  teasing  him, — 
Johnny  had  been  teased.  And  then  she  had  looked  par- 
ticularly pretty  as  she  stood  in  front  of  him,  prettier  as 
her  consciousness  grew.  She  had  never  even  doubted 
him  before,  not  a  glimmer  of  doubt,  it  was  miraculous. 
And  then,  seeking  an  appeal  to  his  better  feelings,  she  had 
offered  her  husband's  name.  Offered  it  in  that  manner, 
the  indubitable,  the  manner  of  those  who  name  their 
nearest  haven  to  pirates  on  the  stormy  sea.  And  then,  as 
though  that  were  not  enough  to  drive  him  from  his  bear- 
ings, she  had  lost  her  temper,  with  a  charming  unexpect- 
edness, really  warming  to  the  heart:  since  it  was  so 
exactly  as  Ursula  never  could  have  done  in  any  circum- 
stances. Why,  Ursula  would  not  have  sacrificed  her 
sash, —  she  would  never  have  thought  of  tearing  up  her 
clothes.  Ursula  would  have  —  it  was  hardly  worth  con- 
sidering what  she  would  have  done  at  such  a  juncture, 
since  never,  never,  in  this  world  or  the  next,  would  she 
have  let  a  man  decoy  her  into  such  an  indecorous  position. 
Nor  would  she  ever,  ever,  have  forgiven  it  the  said  man, 
if  she  had. 

Johnny's  wicked  eyes  were  widening  to  amusement,  his 
habitual  confidence,  mislaid  for  a  minute,  was  coming 
back.  He  felt  much  the  better  for  the  interlude,  distinctly 
better,  and  grateful  to  his  partner  by  the  way.  She  had 
played  up  to  him  neatly,  answered  him  well,  and  the  best 
bit  of  action,  by  far,  had  been  hers.  There  was  always 
that  point  of  view  to  be  considered,  even  if  the  moral  did 
not  quite  come  off.  Johnny  looked  from  Violet,  pale  and 
silent,  to  the  torn  wisp  of  drapery,  lying  on  the  floor. 
Shocking, —  he  wondered  she  could  have  done  it, —  tear- 
ing her  nice  clothes  about !  Especially  as  it  was  probable 
she  had  not  an  enormous  number  to  tear:  not  even  so 
many  as  Ursula,  who  thought  herself  so  precious  mod- 


96  THE  ACCOLADE 

erate,  such  a  model  to  the  frivolous  world.  He  moved 
forward,  picked  up  the  wisp  furtively,  and  rolled  it  about 
his  hand.  Such  a  good  scene  does  not  occur  often  in  a 
lifetime,  he  felt  inclined  to  remember  it,  keep  a  memento. 
It  would  be  a  lesson  to  Johnny, —  a  solemn  lesson, —  not 
to  count  too  rashly  on  a  girl's  affection  for  her  clothing. 
Or  it  might  merely  serve  as  a  good  story  of  her,  to 
amuse  Jemmy  and  Bert. 

Finally, —  he  apologized:  why  we  will  not  pretend  to 
say :  except  that  he  came  close  up  to  Violet,  and  she  lifted 
her  eyes.  Granted  she  took  it  like  that,  that  he  had  be- 
trayed the  bargain  of  their  friendship,  there  was  nothing 
else  for  a  man  to  do.  He  might  have  intended  to  "  shut 
her  up,"  temporarily,  but  to  hurt  her  was  another  thing. 
For  a  passing  instant,  when  her  eyes  reached  his,  he  was 
really  remorseful,  and  very  nearly  ashamed. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  began  impressively,  and  stopped  dead. 
It  was  so  extremely  rare,  in  life,  for  John  to  apologize, 
that  he  thought  it  might  as  well  make  its  full  effect  upon 
the  company.  It  did :  after  a  somewhat  alarming  inter- 
val, she  smiled.  Relieved  extraordinarily,  his  spirits 
rose. 

"  Feelin'  better  ?  "  he  proceeded,  in  his  artless  manner, 
taking  her  hand,  which  she  had  not  offered  him,  and 
stowing  it  carefully  inside  his  arm.  Johnny  was  an  adept 
at  what  is  called  carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's  coun- 
try. The  effect  that  Violet,  not  he,  had  lost  control  of 
herself  lately,  was  instantly  conveyed.  She  nodded  and 
nearly  laughed.  She  was  a  nice  kid.  After  that  the  con- 
versation was  the  old  one,  but  inverted, —  the  parts 
changed.  As  follows. 

"  It's  like  this,"  said  Johnny,  frowning.  "  I'm  pretty 
busy  in  these  days.  I  suppose  it's  miles  to  your  place." 

"  Miles,"  said  Violet.  "  We're  half  out  of  London." 
She  was  recovering  from  the  shock,  or  whatever  it  was. 

"  I've  been  wanting  for  some  time  to  see  all  of  you," 
said  Johnny.  "  Some  of  you,  Violet, —  one  or  two. 


THE  ASPIRANT  97 

What  about  to-morrow,  for  instance.  Or  would  the  lot 
of  you  be  out?  " 

"  To-morrow  is  Sunday,"  said  Violet.  "  I  don't  want 
to  disturb  you  after  luncheon,  if  you're  really  busy." 

"  I'll  get  Blandy  to  call  me  early,"  said  Johnny,  "  like 
the  fellow  in  Wordsworth."  He  waited, —  she  did  not 
even  correct  him, —  it  had  been  worse  than  he  thought. 
He  had  been  a  fair  worm,  he  decided, —  he  had  a  certain 
pleasure  in  deciding  it.  "Quite  sure  that's  all  right?" 
he  enquired,  looking  down,  and  gathering  her  little  hand 
more  closely  beneath  his  arm. 

"  Quite  sure."     She  nodded. 

"  You  won't  go  back  on  it  ?  "  He  still  hesitated.  "  I 
don't  want  to  go  all  that  way  out  for  nothing,  you  know." 

"  You  shall  be  let  in,  I  promise  you."  She  looked  up 
and  laughed.  "John,  did  you  think  I  really  would?" 

"  I've  known  women  who  would,  soon  as  winking," 
explained  Johnny,  relieved  anew.  "  Score  over  a  man  in 
front  of  the  servants, —  on  her  own  premises, —  sickening 
form!  However,  I  admit  you're  not  that  class, —  spite- 
ful. I  say," —  he  felt  with  his  odd  hand  in  a  pocket, — "  I 
suppose  I've  got  the  address?  " 

"  Ursula  has,"  said  Violet.  Johnny  laughed  himself  by 
an  oversight.  "  Are  you  sure  you  have  got  my  name?  " 

"  Sure,  darling,"  said  Johnny,  with  sudden  earnestness. 
"  Couldn't  ever  forget  it,  for  all  the  time  it  is  since  I  be- 
gan." 

"  Well,  you'll  be  careful  in  front  of  my  rough-haired 
visitors,"  said  Violet,  coming  back  to  the  original  object 
of  the  conversation,  in  beautiful  style. 

"  I'll  be  jolly  careful,"  swore  Johnny.  "  Granted  the 
rough-haired  have  the  sense  to  keep  away." 

Thus  it  was  settled,  and  Johnny,  fairly  content  with  the 
world  again,  returned  her  to  her  husband  in  the  dancing- 
hall,  excessively  late.  This,  of  course,  should  have  been 
the  final  score  for  Johnny,  since  the  idea  of  making  Violet 


98  THE  ACCOLADE 

thoroughly  late  for  the  "  other  fellow  "  had  been  in  the 
back  of  his  mind,  first  and  last,  during  the  entire  duration 
of  that  dialogue.  But  that  part  of  his  well-merited  score 
shriveled  utterly,  owing  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Shovell,  a 
careless  young  gentleman,  who  never  kept  the  close  watch 
on  his  wife  that  her  attractions  warranted, —  was  even 
later  than  they. 

The  results  were  simply  admirable. 

Johnny  turned  up  next  day  at  his  cousin's  "  place," 
amiable  in  temper,  excellent  in  appearance,  everything  he 
should  be,  and  perfectly  prepared  to  do  all  she  wanted. 
Violet  did  not  even  have  to  explain  what  she  wanted, — 
he  knew  already.  The  chances  were  that  from  the  first 
moment  she  had  mentioned  wanting  to  talk  to  him  par- 
ticularly, he  had  known.  He  was  really  at  his  best ;  nor 
was  he  conscious  of  being  a  model,  which  would  have 
spoiled  the  effect,  because  he  was  absent-minded.  He 
was  so  very  absent,  that  Violet  wondered  if  it  were  the 
results  of  the  sleeping-engagement  from  which  Blandy 
had  too  brusquely  torn  him:  but  it  was  not  so.  Johnny 
really  had  lots  of  things  to  think  about,  an  increasing 
number,  and  in  Violet's  friendly  atmosphere,  amid  a  so- 
ciety which  neither  bored  nor  bothered  him  unduly,  he 
could  get  some  of  his  thinking  done. 

He  talked  to  her  a  little  at  first,  of  course,  answering 
questions  on  the  subject  of  his  mother,  and  "  drooping  his 
eyes "  on  his  surroundings.  Then  his  cousin  was 
snatched  out  of  his  hands  by  fresh  arrivals,  less  deserv- 
ing, perhaps,  but  competent, — "  on  the  spot  and  respec- 
table," to  use  Johnny's  own  terms.  He  had  no  more  to 
do  than  to  be  civil  to  such  as  spoke  to  him,  and  pick  up 
a  jest  occasionally,  that  Shovell  missed.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  none  of  them, —  except  little  rough-haired  Miss 
Falkland,  who  did  not  count, —  were  women.  Had 
women  been  there,  they  would  have  attacked  him. 

John  was  sure  of  that.     After  all,  in  twelve  years'  ex- 


THE  ASPIRANT  99 

perience,  one  has  stuff  enough  to  generalize:  and  it  had 
begun  before  he  was  twenty,  if  you  came  to  that.  He 
knew  about  women,  of  course,  because  one  had  to ;  but 
he  had  had  a  little  too  many  of  them,  all  the  same,  in  his 
life.  Not  only  his  aunts,  but  others.  His  aunts,  being 
pious  and  proper,  and  passive  and  put-upon,  and  every- 
thing except  picturesque  or  poor, —  fearing  and  adoring 
him,  in  about  equal  measure,  ever  since  he  was  fifteen 
years  old, —  he  could  have  managed  with,  their  type  was 
constant.  It  was  others,  all  the  other  sorts.  It  seemed 
to  surprise  his  world  that  he  "  cut "  occasionally,  with 
Bert  or  Jemmy,  to  the  most  savage  regions  of  Ireland  or 
Scotland,  in  order  to  do  without  them ;  but  even  there 
they  sprang  up,  materialized,  as  it  were,  in  his  neighbor- 
hood. Nor  did  they  vanish  again,  like  the  convenient 
temptations  of  the  saints.  Johnny  was  not  a  saint,  pos- 
sibly :  it  must  be  that. 

He  could  manage  them,  of  course,  practically  all  the 
sorts,  at  need :  but  that  did  not  necessarily  mean  he  was 
always  wanting  to  do  it.  They  seemed  to  think  so,  but  at 
quite  a  lot  of  times  he  would  sooner  have  done  anything 
else.  Only  they  attacked  him,  and  of  course  he  "  bucked 
up  "  and  responded,  in  the  necessary  character,  and  so  on. 
A  man  may  flirt  in  self-defense,  he  may  have  to.  He  may 
have  to  do  other  things  as  well.  Heartlessness  is  the 
smallest  charge,  in  such  contingencies,  that  may  be  laid 
against  him.  There  is  no  saying  where  the  incessant 
trifling  and  carping  and  cajoling  of  women  may  lead  you. 
As  for  jealous  women  —  good  Lord! 

Johnny  shut  his  eyes,  his  head  resting  on  his  clenched 
hand,  in  a  byway  of  Violet's  convenient  little  drawing- 
room.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  again, —  wide,  in  his 
manner, —  the  rough-haired  Miss  Falkland  was  regarding 
him.  One  little  shy  glance,  wondering  and  pitying,  that 
was  all.  She  thought  he  had  a  headache,  probably. 

He  stirred,  and  looked  about  him  again.  He  had  lost 
himself  rather.  He  liked  the  atmosphere  of  Violet's  little 


loo  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  place,"  and  he  remembered  having  liked  it  in  just  that 
manner  when  he  last  come  there,  which  was  some  time 
since.  The  kid  knew  how  to  do  things,  like  his  mother. 
He  wished  Ursula  would  learn  the  difference,  but  it  was 
past  hoping  now.  Except  in  his  own  private  retreat  at 
home,  which  he  had  furnished  and  arranged, —  and  then 
disarranged, —  all  himself,  he  was  nowhere  really  at  his 
ease.  It  was  all  very  nice,  of  course,  like  Ursula ;  but  that 
was  not  the  point.  Color  and  comfort  were  what  Johnny 
required  in  life,  each  of  the  right  sort, —  his.  His  mother 
knew. 

His  thoughts  turned  upon  his  mother,  since  in  this  odd 
little  corner  of  London,  there  really  seemed  no  call  to  talk. 
She  told  him  less  and  less  of  herself  in  these  days,  and  he 
could  not  be  with  her  all  he  wanted.  She  was  ill,  of 
course,  that  was  what  it  meant:  women  of  her  kind  did 
not  talk  of  suffering.  And  since,  owing  to  that,  she  could 
talk  of  little  else,  they  were  being  cut  off  from  one  another 
steadily  and  surely.  As  surely,  worse  would  come.  One 
of  his  argosies  of  true  affection,  untricked  and  untainted, 
was  driving  on  the  rocks.  One  great  treasure  of  his  life 
would  be  spilt  and  wasted, —  if  it  could  be  wasted.  Per- 
haps it  never  could. 

All  unaware,  Johnny  dropped  his  head  down  again, 
since  his  hand  was  ready  to  receive  it.  He  was  sitting 
absolutely  motionless,  attending,  with  the  surface  of  his 
brain,  to  the  contentions  of  a  group  of  clever  young 
rough-haired  men  from  the  public  offices.  "  Rough- 
haired,"  we  had  better  mention,  was  not  libelous,  in 
Johnny's  use.  Rough-haired  merely  referred  to  anything 
under  age.  Under  twenty-five,  in  this  instance,  but  the 
word  would  do.  They  were  among  his  subjects,  and  he 
could  have  corrected  some  of  their  statements:  but  still 
he  did  not.  It  was  not  worth  it,  among  such  a  respectable 
and  honest  gang. 

Violet  brought  him  his  second  cup  of  tea,  unasked, 


THE  ASPIRANT  101 

while  she  still  discoursed  with  the  rough-haired  behind 
her:  and  startled  him  out  of  his  dream  by  her  approach. 
He  made  a  movement  to  rise,  but  she  stopped  it  with  two 
fingers,  guarding  him,  as  it  were,  with  equal  kindness, 
just  as  though  he  had  not  bullied  and  offended  her  the 
night  before.  That  was  how  they  were,  the  best  of  them, 
— he  would  willingly  have  kissed  her  little  fingers  on  his 
shoulder :  only  Shovell  would  have  scalped  him,  and  little, 
rough-haired  Miss  Falkland,  over  by  the  window,  would 
have  been  shocked.  One  had  to  be  careful,  with  girls  of 
that  age  about. 

Johnny  sighed,  and  drank  his  tea  out  of  a  silver  spoon, 
which  he  examined  between  whiles,  the  other  hand  still 
propping  his  languid  head.  He  had  no  idea  what  he  was 
doing,  of  course,  only  it  happened  Helena  took  note  of 
every  detail.  It  mattered  not  the  least,  to  Helena's  eyes, 
what  he  did:  he  remained  simply  royal,  superb  in  every 
look  and  tone  and  movement, —  stages,  yes,  worlds  re- 
moved from  every  other  man  in  the  room. 

Johnny  was  presently  recalled  to  life,  suddenly  galvan- 
ized in  his  manner,  because  one  of  Violet's  visitors  out- 
stayed all  the  others:  and  it  entered  John's  languid  head 
that  this  person  had  his  eye  upon  a  tcte-a-tete  with  Miss 
Falkland  too.  He  was  waiting,  in  short,  and  had  for 
some  time  been  waiting,  for  Johnny  to  go. 

Very  good :  Johnny  aroused,  emerged,  got  that  man  with 
great  address  on  a  subject  he  knew  nothing  about,  and 
treated  him  very  badly,  in  order  to  make  little  Miss  Falk- 
land laugh  at  him:  which  she  did.  That  is,  she  smiled 
slightly  once,  turning  her  head  aside  to  conceal  it.  It 
was  sufficient,  and  Johnny  allowed  the  visitor  to  go.  He 
was  anxious  to  go  by  that  time.  In  the  character  of  the 
master  of  the  house,  -which  he  assumed  easily,  Johnny 
helped  him  out,  and  then  turned  round.  The  room,  ex- 
cept for  his  hostess  in  the  sofa-corner,  was  empty. 


102  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Where's  she  gone  ?  "  said  Johnny,  vexed. 

"  Probably  to  speak  to  my  baby  in  the  garden,"  said 
Violet.  "  She  likes  them  so." 

"  Why  isn't  it  on  view  ?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  Oh,  Charles  took  her  outside.     She  loves  the  sun." 

Johnny  proceeded  to  the  French  window  of  the  room, 
and  looked  out  of  it,  to  see  if  she  were  speaking  the  truth. 
Violet  dodged  him  habitually,  with  that  child.  He  had 
never  yet  got  a  fair  view  of  it,  and  hardly  believed  in  its 
existence.  She  might  have  been  "  having  him  on,"  on  the 
subject.  However,  it  was  there:  or  at  least,  something 
was  there,  in  dispute  between  Miss  Falkland,  and  Violet's 
young  husband,  who  was  holding  it. 

"  You'd  better  have  it  in,  hadn't  you  ?  "  said  Johnny, 
having  gazed  at  the  group  on  the  grass  a  moment,  absorb- 
ing all  its  ingredients,  with  solemnity. 

"  Why?"  said  Violet,  coloring  a  little. 

"  Because  I'm  going  out.  Might  be  dangerous  if  we 
met,  mightn't  it?  We  never  have." 

Having  teased  her  to  that  extent,  rather  heed  fully,  he 
swung  suddenly  through  the  window,  out  upon  the  grass. 
Her  little  plans  not  to  parade  her  possession  in  his  com- 
pany amused  him.  He  might  as  well  show  her  he  saw 
through  them :  just  as  well. 

He  went  on  up  the  garden,  slightly  smiling,  and  sniffing 
the  air  with  contentment, —  real  air.  It  was  quite  a  fresh 
part  of  London,  and  the  close  of  a  lovely  Spring  day.  It 
was  Sunday  too, —  not  that  Sunday  as  such  makes  any 
difference,  but  little  Miss  Falkland  in  the  distance  had 
looked  it, —  it  might  have  been  her  Sunday  frock.  Ob- 
viously, she  came  from  a  house  where  Sunday  frocks  are 
common.  Johnny  crossed  the  shadow  of  the  house,  into 
the  further  spaces  of  the  little  garden,  where  the  sun  still 
lingered,  and  where  the  trio  stood. 

He  met  his  host  first,  and  mentioned  that  Violet  was 
fed-up  with  the  lot  of  them,  and  wanted  to  read  and  not 
be  bothered.  Violet  had  not  told  him  these  facts,  but  he 


THE  ASPIRANT  103 

mentioned  them  as  unquestionable.  Whereupon,  instead 
of  stopping  to  retort,  and  open  a  general  discussion,  such 
as  might  have  proved  useful  and  introductory  to  Johnny's 
purposes,  Mr.  Shovell  promptly  took  the  white  thing  in 
his  arms  inside  to  her, —  as  though  that  was  any  good ! 
The  effect  of  this  impulsive  move,  in  a  man  who  should 
have  known  better,  was  to  "  brusquer  les  choses  "  con- 
siderably more  than  Johnny  intended.  It  put  him  out. 
Why,  for  all  Shovell  knew,  the  girl  might  have  been 
frightened  of  him,  left  at  his  mercy  like  that !  However, 
now  he  had  to  make  the  best  of  it.  He  was  about  to  make 
one  of  the  well-known  and  usual  openings  with  under- 
twenty,  when  Helena  started  first. 

"  She  is  so  good,  Mr.  Ingestre,"  was  Helena's  opening, 
—  enthusiastic.  "  An  absolute  lamb !  " 

Johnny  took  her  to  allude  to  her  hostess,  and  began 
answering  carefully, —  then  found  Miss  Falkland  was 
talking  of  the  child.  It  was  true  he  had  not  heard  that  kid 
cry,  which  looked  like  good  management  on  the  women's 
part,  somewhere  in  the  background.  He  implied  this,  in 
prettier  language,  for  Miss  Falkland's  benefit. 

"  It's  a  question  of  health,  generally,"  said  Helena. 
"  When  they  feel  really  comfortable,  they  never  cry.  Or 
at  least  practically  never.  And  she's  so  sweetly  well." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Johnny.  Certainly,  health  was  some- 
thing. A  healthy  child  was  a  great  thing,  more  than  this 
bit  of  a  girl  imagined,  in  speaking  so  lightly. 

However,  he  had  no  objection  to  Miss  Falkland  chat- 
tering, while  he  realized  the  effects  of  the  level  sunlight 
among  her  twisted  meshes  of  hair, —  mazes  of  her  hair,  as 
some  Elizabethan  called  it.  That  fellow's  idea  was  that 
Love  walked  the  mazes,  Johnny  remembered, —  they  cer- 
tainly entangled  the  eye  of  man.  Helena's  hair,  miscalled 
red,  was  the  beautiful  chestnut  threaded, —  powdered,  one 
might  say, —  with  gold,  which  of  all  shades  of  red  is  least 
often  seen.  Her  skin  in  full  daylight  had  a  pearly  luster, 
peculiar  to  that  complexion,  and  her  lashes  were  delicate 


104  THE  ACCOLADE 

and  dark.  Though  still  quite  a  schoolgirl,  she  was  "  tall 
and  stately,"  like  the  Idyllic  Maud.  She  was  much  more 
Johnny's  match,  by  the  ballroom  standards,  than  Violet 
Shovell  was,  though  he  could  not  have  "  pulled  her  about  " 
very  easily,  nor  cared  to  attempt  it.  He  barely  looked 
downward  to  the  gold-dust  wisps  on  her  temples,  as  they 
strolled  together  on  the  grass-plot,  side  by  side. 

Her  beauty  astonished  him,  as  it  astonished  him  he 
had  not  observed  it  sooner:  he  had  been  uncommonly 
careless.  Real  beauty,  new-blown,  is  not  so  often  seen, 
that  one  can  afford  to  waste  notice  on  its  imitations.  But 
that  is  the  worst  of  ballrooms.  It  took  him  quite  a  time, 
now,  as  he  walked  at  her  side  on  the  turf,  to  make  up  his 
lost  opportunities,  at  the  rate  of  a  glance  a  minute.  He 
feared  the  stage  of  their  acquaintance, —  since,  of  course, 
nothing  spoken  in  a  ballroom  counts, —  would  hardly  al- 
low him  more.  This  was  their  first  meeting, —  he  trusted 
Miss  Falkland  agreed  with  him.  He  rather  thought  by 
her  manner  that  she  did. 

He  tried  to  class  her,  but  she  fitted  no  class  he  had 
going,  so  he  put  her  into  a  class  by  herself,  and  then  added 
the  attributes  of  the  class  afterwards,  in  proportion  as 
he  discovered  them  in  her.  By  this  ingenious  means, 
highly  to  be  recommended  to  those  who  class,  everything 
Helena  said  or  did  fitted  her  new  class  nicely.  He  tried 
her  with  remarks  on  various  appropriate  subjects,  and 
attended  critically  to  her  answers,  soothed  unaware  by 
her  gentle  steady  manner  all  the  time.  Miss  Falkland 
asked  him  of  her  own  accord  to  smoke,  and  refused  with 
a  blush  to  do  likewise, —  just  right  for  her  class,  that  was. 
Then  he  found  two  chairs,  close  together,  on  Shovell's 
lawn,  which  happened  to  suit  his  purposes,  since  the  even- 
ing was  warm.  So,  settling  in  one,  while  Helena  settled 
in  the  other,  he  proceeded  to  a  few  investigations  in  the 
business  matter.  Not  that  he  cared  much  about  Helena's 
theatrical  ideas  or  qualifications,  but  Violet  seemed  to 
have  set  her  heart  on  it,  and  that  urged  a  little  effort. 


THE  ASPIRANT  105 

He  found  she  had  studied  on  the  right  lines,  in  quite 
good  hands,  and  only  wanted,  as  usual,  a  little  pushing 
into  publicity.  John  knew  innumerable  people  of  influ- 
ence, in  the  dramatic  world,  since  his  permanent  taste  lay 
that  way.  He  thought  them  over,  while  he  looked  at  the 
girl  before  him.  She  looked  too  composed  and  ladylike  to 
promise  at  all  well,  but  she  had  presence  and  intelligence, 
and  —  just  possibly  —  imagination.  It  would  look  well, 
and  be  amusing  by  the  way,  if  he  made  Ursula  put  to- 
gether a  little  party,  and  did  a  scene  or  two  of  something 
easy  with  Miss  Falkland,  to  show  her  off.  Rosalind  was 
a  part  that  would  suit  her  nicely;  and  Johnny  would 
wrestle  for  her  willingly  as  Orlando, —  it  would  be  exer- 
cise, if  nothing  else.  It  was  a  bit  of  a  pity  there  was  not 
a  duel  in  the  piece, —  a  duel  with  swords ;  but  one  cannot 
adapt  Shakespeare  to  that  extent:  there  is  a  popular  prej- 
udice against  it. 

Then  he  thought  of  a  few  other  parts  for  her,  building 
plans  idly  while  he  smoked, —  to  think  profoundly  on  the 
matter  was  not  worth  while.  But  Rosalind  was  the  best, 
the  girl  had  the  air  and  build  for  it.  Graceful  and  breezy 
comedy  was  her  line,  granted  she  possessed  a  line  at  all. 
That  would  have  to  be  seen  in  rehearsal, —  at  Johnny's 
house  for  choice.  Ursula  —  well,  Ursula  could  never  be 
regarded  as  a  serious  obstacle,  when  his  own  mind  was 
made  up. 

Having  settled  all  this  to  his  satisfaction,  in  the  back- 
ground of  his  mind :  and  having  surprised  Helena  a  good 
deal  by  the  kind  of  questions  he  asked,  and  by  his  fashion 
of  looking  at  her,  cool  and  penetrating  and  impersonal, 
while  she  responded :  Johnny  produced  one  or  two  gen- 
eralities which  sounded  very  well  to  himself,  though  they 
certainly  meant  nothing, —  how  could  they?  There  was 
nothing  to  tell  her  but  that  her  appearance  was  in  her 
favor,  which,  granted  her  ladylike  class,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  say.  Had  she  been  the  ordinary  thing,  of  course 
he  would  have  said  it. 


io6  THE  ACCOLADE 

As  it  was,  he  lay  silent  for  a  period,  smoking  and  look- 
ing at  the  sky;  during  which  period  Miss  Falkland,  not 
venturing  to  guess  his  thoughts,  was  respectfully  silent 
too.  He  was  different,  it  occurred  to  her,  out-of-doors, 
from  what  he  had  been  within  them,  previously;  nicer, 
nearer  to  her,  so  to  speak.  Dreadfully  clever  as  he  un- 
doubtedly was,  his  royalty  was  in  abeyance.  He  was 
bare-headed,  and  his  hair  disordered  by  his  lazy  attitude, 
which  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  He  looked 
young, —  nearly  as  young  as  Harold, —  distinctly  younger 
than  Mr.  Auberon,  when  he  behaved  like  this.  Not  at  all 
married,  either,  that  remained  the  oddest  thing.  She 
tried  to  find  a  term  for  him,  as  Johnny  had  tried  to  find 
a  class  for  her.  She  had  heard  heaps  of  people  call  Mr. 
Ingestre  handsome,  but  she  did  not  think  it  was  the  word. 
She  had  seen  so  many  so-called  handsome  men.  He  was 
"  nice,"  she  resolved  upon  that.  It  served  the  turn. 

"  I  hate  London,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  deliberately. 

"  Oh,  so  do  I,"  cried  Helena,  forgetting  her  respect. 

"  I  say !  "  murmured  Johnny,  looking  at  her.  A  girl  in 
her  first  season, —  well  in  the  front  of  it,  too, —  ought  to 
have  liked  London.  It  was  not  quite  right  of  her. 

However,  he  realized  that  if  he  began  at  this  point  to 
talk  to  her  about  the  country,  he  would  certainly  be  late 
for  whatever  the  next  thing  was, —  and  there  were  sev- 
eral. So,  after  another  pause,  he  looked  at  his  watch,  got 
up,  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  strolled  indoors. 

The  double  result  of  this  proceeding  was  to  impress 
Miss  Falkland  in  the  rear,  who  decided  that  he  must  be 
even  cleverer  than  she  had  suspected,  he  was  so  funny 
and  vague ;  and  to  take  Mrs.  Shovell  in  the  front,  by  sur- 
prise ;  for  Johnny  caught  her  alone  with  her  baby,  tete-Of- 
tete:  and  so  unexpected  was  his  descent,  that  she  could 
not  dispose  of  her  incumbrance,  nor  even  reach  the  bell. 

This  amused  him.  Her  appearance  with  the  creature 
was  amusing  too,  and  novel :  he  had  never  seen  her  with 
it  before.  He  took  them  in,  separately  and  in  combina- 


THE  ASPIRANT  107 

tion,  at  his  leisure,  for  a  short  time.  The  kid  seemed 
pretty  well  like  all  others,  he  decided,  which  rather  sur- 
prised him,  being  Violet's :  but  it  looked  fit,  as  the  rough- 
haired  Miss  Falkland  said.  Its  form  was  tremend- 
ous. 

"Well?"  said  Violet,  getting  tired  of  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Johnny,  still  at  leisure,  "  I  didn't  pro- 
pose." 

"  I  hoped  you  would,"  said  Violet.  "  Not  marriage, 
you  know,  but  something  more  helpful  for  the  poor  girl." 

"  I  should  have  said  marriage  would  be  the  most  help- 
ful," said  Johnny.  "  Much  the  best  thing  for  her,  any- 
how." 

"  John, —  you  don't  mean  it  ?  "     She  looked  round. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  she  began  talking  about  ?  "  said 
Johnny.  "  Guess." 

"  I  haven't  an  idea,"  said  Violet.  "  I'm  rather  sur- 
prised she  did  begin." 

"  She  began  right  off,"  said  Johnny,  impressively, 
pointing,  "  on  Kids." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Violet.  "  I'm  afraid  that  was 
Margery's  fault.  I  shouldn't  have  left  her  about.  We 
apologize." 

"  However,"  pursued  Johnny,  "  there's  no  harm  in  her 
speaking  a  part  for  us  down  there,  if  she  likes :  no  harm 
at  all.  She'll  not  do  it  much  worse  than  others  of  her 
sort,  I  dare  say :  and  I'll  have  a  few  people  in  to  hear." 

"  How  terribly  kind  —  of  Ursula,"  said  Violet. 

"Of  course,"  said  Johnny,  reminded,  "  Ursula  may  not 
have  a  day,  when  we  get  back  from  Devonshire.  The 
cards  are  pretty  thick  on  the  ground,  in  our  place,  and 
she's  been  sending  out  some  thousands  too.  Quite  likely 
she's  full  up,  when  I  come  to  think.  If  so,  it's  off." 

"  No,  John, —  nothing  of  the  sort.  If  so,  you  ask  your 
few  people  here,  and  proceed  as  originally  intended." 

"  Oh,  do  I  ?  "  scoffed  Johnny.  "  Not  likely.  You've 
no  idea,  the  sort  of  people  they  are.  On  the  line,  most  of 


io8  THE  ACCOLADE 

'em, —  over  it,  the  women.  Not  your  form,  my  sweet 
child,  at  all."  He  seemed  complacent. 

Mrs.  Shovell  frowned  over  this  for  a  time.  Her  baby, 
which  was  certainly  well-behaved,  was  engaged  in  eating 
her  gold  chain  the  while. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  submitting  thoughtfully,  "  I  leave  it 
to  you." 

"  Quite  sure  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 

"  Quite.  Because  you  know  about  those  things, —  I 
don't." 

"  As  usual,"  he  concluded,  in  a  moralizing  tone. 
"Isn't  it?  Yes.  Very  good,  now  I'm  going.  If  that 
was  my  kid,  I  shouldn't  give  it  gold  to  eat  —  er  —  at 
present.  Later  on,  it  might  take  to  it.  But  I  suppose 
you  know  about  those  things,  don't  you?" 

"  I  had  thought  I  did,  till  now."  She  laughed  a  little, 
and  rescued  her  chain  from  the  baby's  clutches.  "  John, 
it's  dreadfully  kind  of  you,  really.  Then  I  bequeath 
Helena  to  you  entirely, —  may  I  ?  " 

"  Entirely,"  said  Johnny.  "  Body  and  soul.  Can  you 
reconcile  it  with  your  conscience  as  an  —  er  —  matron?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Shovell  definitely.    "  I'm  thankful." 

"  Better  not  be  thankful  too  soon,"  said  Johnny  with  a 
glint.  "  The  results  may  be  other  than  you  think." 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  her,"  entreated  Violet.  "  She's 
so  nice." 

"  Much  too  nice,"  said  Johnny.  "  That's  the  bother. 
It  generally  is.  What's  more,  she  thinks  I'm  nice,  at 
present.  Bet  you  she  does !  " 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  make  such  a  nice  girl  change 
her  mind.  Poor  John,  no,  it's  horrid  for  you."  She 
laughed,  but  glanced  at  him.  "  What  are  you  really 
thinking?"  she  asked,  and  waited. 

"  She's  a  bit  more  suitable  to  your  place  than  mine," 
he  said,  slowly.  "  You'd  have  done  better  to  stick  to  her. 
That's  what  I  said  before,  started  with,  isn't  it?  Why 
do  you  make  me  repeat  myself?  She  doesn't  belong  to 


THE  ASPIRANT  109 

our  lot  much  —  not  much —  I  can't  see  her  somehow. 
Course  I  may  be  wrong."  He  held  out  his  finger  to  the 
baby. 

"  Don't  lose  heart  before  you  try  her,"  laughed  Violet, 
eyebrows  up.  He  was  distinctly  funny  this  evening,  not 
tiresome  at  all,  tired  was  nearer  the  mark.  And  so 
clever !  She  was  almost  certain,  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken, 
that  he  was  right.  He  knew  women  so  well,  and  he 
knew  artists  too:  he  had  real  experience  of  both. 

For  the  moment  while  he  stood  close  to  her,  silent  and 
passive,  apparently,  condescending  to  her  child's  little 
hand,  the  power  he  carried  about  the  world  unused 
seemed  to  break  through  its  barriers  and  reach  her.  That 
was  the  royalty  in  him  really,  that  Helena  had  sought 
after  her  first  interview  to  express.  It  was  not,  like  his 
father's,  the  common  dignity  of  an  ancient  name  and 
arrogant  training:  John  had  more  cause  for  pride  than 
that.  That  power  in  reserve  of  his  seemed  now  to  throw 
Helena's  little  ambitions  to  a  great  distance,  though  he 
said  no  word  of  it,  nor  hinted  a  comparison.  His  own 
had  been  so  far  more  real,  more  firmly  founded, — 
proven  indeed!  With  every  year  that  passed,  he  knew 
better  what  he  had  wasted,  facing  the  folly  of  it  squarely, 
as  he  had  done  from  the  first.  It  had  not  embittered, 
either,  the  eternal  youth  of  art  in  him  was  too  real  for 
that.  It  only  seemed  to  bring  him  up  short  like  this,  at 
times,  as  though  protesting  at  his  unworthy  destiny. 
Baffled  on  two  sides,  in  life,  he  faced,  as  home  affairs 
now  stood,  a  double  failure.  Yet,  for  all  a  single  fail- 
ure meant  to  an  Ingestre,  his  gallant  attitude  towards  life 
never  varied.  He  was  still  the  young  outlaw,  highway- 
man, watching  for  fresh  chances  always,  reining  his  horse 
back,  his  eyes  upon  the  road. 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I'll  see  to  it,"  he  resumed,  after  a  con- 
siderable interval.  Dragging  his  gaze  from  vacancy,  he 
looked  down.  "  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  —  yes,  you 
were, —  saw  you!  Teach  you  to  laugh  at  me,  bit  of  a 


no  THE  ACCOLADE 

kid!  Pretending  to  have  kids  of  your  own,  I'll  take  it 
away  from  you."  After  this  preliminary,  very  rapid,  he 
cleared  his  throat  and  started  again. 

"^n^how,"  he  resumed,  "  I  won't  have  those  people 
here.  That's  a  rotten  idea  of  yours,  really.  Our  place 
is  better,  jollier  atmosphere,  smarter  scenery,  background 
to  tone.  Domestic  situation  they  recognize, —  so  on." 
Pause.  "  Write  you  about  it,  or  she  will,"  said  Johnny, 
gravely.  "  Good-by.  Good-by  —  er  —  Margery.  I  say ! 
—  call  that  a  hand !  " 


PART  II 


THE  ARTIST 


URSULA  disliked  Johnny's  idea  heartily,  particularly  that 
it  concerned  Helena  Falkland,  and  came  by  way  of  Violet 
Shovell ;  but  she  did  not  resist  it  for  long.  She  literally 
could  not  resist  her  husband  when  he  was  set  upon  a  thing, 
though  she  was  obstinate  enough  about  details.  She  and 
John  had  more  than  one  acrid  dialogue  over  the  matter, 
while  they  were  in  the  country,  but  never  over  the  fact 
of  the  party,  which  was  understood  after  the  first  en- 
counter,—  simply  over  the  management  of  it.  Here  she 
proved  denser  than  usual  to  Johnny's  able  and  eloquent 
demonstrations.  She  showed  an  entire  inability  to  grasp 
the  fact  that  business  and  pleasure  cannot  be  mixed ;  and 
wanted  from  the  first  to  turn,  by  indiscriminate  invita- 
tions, her  husband's  test  of  the  girl  before  experts  into  a 
fashionable  party. 

"  I  don't  want  a  lot  of  hangers-on,"  explained  Johnny, 
the  first  morning  they  got  back  to  town.  "  They  can  see 
her  on  the  boards  later,  if  she  ever  gets  there,  which  isn't 
likely." 

"  But  you  are  going  to  act,  aren't  you  ?  "  argued  Ursula. 
"  Everybody  likes  that." 

"  It's  not  a  costume  exhibition,"  said  Johnny,  "  which 
is  what  everybody  likes.  They  may  stop  her  in  the  mid- 
dle, probably.  They'll  probably  want  to  stop  her  before 
she  begins." 

"Who  may?" 

"  Oh,  our  lot.     Monty  Mitchell  and  the  rest." 

"You  mean  that  horrid  Mitchell's  coming?" 

"  That  horrid  Mitchell's  my  principal  guest.  I'd  have 
had  Mrs.  Monty  alone  if  I'd  dared, —  she's  a  far  better 


II4  THE  ACCOLADE 

actor,  not  to  say  judge ;  but  I  didn't  dare  in  the  circum- 
stances. And  it's  better  Monty  should  see  her  anyhow, — 
seeing's  something  in  the  case." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  to  dress,"  said  Ursula. 

"  I  don't,"  said  Johnny.  "  I  shall  wear  what  I'm  stand- 
ing in,  which'll  be  golf-clothes,  probably,  at  two  on  Sun- 
day. And  she'll  undress,  if  anything,  for  Rosalind, — 
hope  she  will."  He  pushed  his  cup  to  be  refilled. 

"  You  needn't  be  unpleasant,"  said  Ursula. 

She  considered  the  new  material,  quietly,  while  she 
filled  his  cup  for  him.  It  was  that  superior  manner  of 
hers  Johnny  found  so  intolerable, —  as  though  she  had 
been  his  nursery-governess,  or  his  Sunday-school  teacher, 
not  his  wife.  He  was  certain  at  time*  she  put  it  on  to 
vex  him, —  Ursula  was  not  really  like  that.  His  senti- 
ments about  her  perplexed  himself.  Lately,  down  in 
Devonshire,  she  had  seemed  to  shine,  by  the  side  of  her 
mother  and  sisters.  John  had  depended  on  her,  inevi- 
tably, as  his  defense  against  her  far  more  deadly  rela- 
tions: and  Ursula  had  defended  him,  kindly  and  capably 
too.  Out  riding  on  the  hills,  he  had  managed  almost  to 
like  her  in  the  old  way,  once  or  twice :  but  the  impression 
did  not  wear.  As  soon  as  they  reached  the  background 
of  their  own  hearth,  and  the  greater  variety  and  contrast 
of  London,  they  slipped  back  to  the  miserable  deadlock 
of  misunderstanding  again.  She  would  not  understand 
him:  of  late  she  would  not  even  try.  She  turned  her 
back  on  all  his  interests,  looked  away  from  his  friends. 
Her  appearance  of  ^self-sufficing  completeness  outraged 
him  just  as  before;  her  manners,  movements,  even  her 
exhausted  ill-managed  voice  was  a  daily  trial  to  his  tem- 
per, as  much  as  what  she  said.  He  constantly  exhorted 
her  to  speak  up  and  to  speak  out,  even  when  he  could 
make  her  speak  at  all.  He  knew  it  was  a  matter  of 
health  largely,  but  his  growing  impatience  and  distaste 
were  not  matters  that  could  be  reasoned  with,  even  had 
he  been  one  who  lived  by  reason, —  and  he  was  not. 


THE  ARTIST  115 

The  new  material  did  not  please  Ursula,  any  more  than 
the  old.  She  preferred  John  to  dress,  to  shine  as  much 
as  possible,  if  he  really  intended  to  show  himself  in  pub- 
lic. It  was  something  to  exhibit  him,  if  she  could  not 
approve.  Her  hope  was  that  he  was  "  ragging  "  as  usual, 
misleading  her  in  order  to  get  his  way.  If  she  flattered 
him  a  little,  and  asked  some  of  his  personal  acquaintance 
in  the  good  sets,  he  would  not  seriously  insist  on  reciting 
to  them  in  golf-clothes,  she  was  sure. 

"  I  suppose  you've  asked  Violet,"  she  resumed,  "  and  all 
her  lot." 

"  No,  I  haven't,  I  don't  want  her,"  said  Johnny  pa- 
tiently. "  And  having  some  sense,  she  doesn't  want  to 
come.  You  don't  seem  to  have  an  idea  of  the  thing, 
Ursula.  It's  not  a  show,  it's  an  examination." 

"  What  are  you  acting  for  then  ?  "  said  Ursula  huffily. 

"  I  ?  Backing  her  up.  She  needs  somebody,  and  I'm 
the  obvious,  specially  as  I've  been  rehearsing  her.  She'll 
be  —  er  —  used  to  me.  I'll  sit  in  a  chair  and  read  the 
part  if  you'd  rather, —  the  other  girl  will  have  to,  any- 
how. But  it's  more  fun  for  her  if  I  act  it,  naturally." 

"  What  other  girl?  "  said  Ursula. 

"  There's  another  girl  in  the  piece,"  explained  Johnny, 
"  called  Celia,  a  deuced  pretty  name." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  That  reminds  me,"  said  Ursula. 
"  The  Auberon  boy  would  like  to  c^ome,  with  his  sister, 
from  Hampstead.  I  ought  to  ask  them  to  something,  and 
it's  just  a  chance." 

"  Just,"  agreed  Johnny.  "  Hampstead, —  great 
snakes ! " 

Ursula,  disregarding  his  ejaculations,  was  making  a  note 
on  the  list  of  names  that  lay  at  her  side.  Why  Celia 
should  remind  her  of  Hampstead,  Johnny  did  not  ask. 
The  connection  between  Arden  and  Hampstead  seemed 
to  him  far-fetched,  but  it  was  just  like  Ursula.  Give  her 
something  like  Arden,  and  she  thought  of  something  like 
Hampstead,  instantly, —  no  hope. 


ii6  THE  ACCOLADE 

"Anyone  else  you'd  like?"  he  enquired,  watching  her. 
"A  few  classes  from  the  High  Schools,  now, —  classics, 
do  'em  good.  Pleasant  Sunday  afternoon  for  the  masses, 
—  we  might  take  Hyde  Park." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it  on  Sunday  ?  "  said  Ursula,  looking 
up  from  her  notes.  "  I'm  sure  the  girl's  people  won't 
like  that.  The  Falklands  are  Church,  I  know." 

"  I  do  it  for  my  people,  who  are  a  bit  more  important, 
and  happen  to  have  no  other  time.  Did  you  ever  con- 
sider what  the  dramatic  profession  is, —  worst-paid  and 
hardest-worked  of  any,  except  sick-nursing." 

"  How  can  you  compare  them  ?  "  said  Ursula  indig- 
nantly. 

"  I  don't,  for  a  minute,"  said  Johnny.  "  Anyone  can 
smoothe  a  pillow.  You'd  do  it  by  nature :  so  would  little 
Miss  rough-haired  Rosalind.  Violet  would  do  it  —  oh, 
rippingly."  He  stretched  his  arms  and  looked  at  her. 
"  Pity  I've  never  been  ill." 

Ursula  colored  a  little.  She  would  have  given  much  to 
have  John  ill,  really  helpless  on  her  hands :  she  could  have 
taught  him  a  few  things  then.  How  much  of  woman's 
boasted  faculty  for  nursing  is  love  of  power,  in  origin? 
Ursula  had  a  passion  for  power,  a  tyrant's  passion,  for  she 
dreamt  of  a  power  for  which  she  need  not  pay.  No 
other  would  have  satisfied  her  finally.  It  is  a  fact  that 
two  cannot  have  that  peculiar  power,  the  enchanter's,  in 
a  household.  It  is  always  either  the  man  or  the  woman, 
sometimes  neither,  never  both.  Nor  does  it  come  by 
desiring,  the  contrary.  Johnny  had  it  by  nature,  so 
Ursula  had  been  driven  to  succumb.  She  had  not  real- 
ized he  would  beat  her  on  her  own  ground,  in  this  fashion, 
in  marrying  him.  He  could  attract  by  a  look  or  a  word, 
make  the  friends  he  wanted,  and  keep  them,  what  was 
more.  That  fine  feminine  influence  she  had  hoped  to 
wield  had  been  swallowed  up  in  his  far  more  influential 
personality.  Even  his  vanity  was  a  bigger  thing  than 
hers,  hers  merely  rankled,  strangling  within  her.  He  was 


THE  ARTIST  117 

a  readier  assailant  too, —  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  assault. 
.When  he  teased,  as  at  present,  she  had  no  choice  but  out- 
spoken fury,  or  silence;  and  she  preferred  silence  —  un- 
fortunately. 

Johnny  watched  her  a  minute,  and  thought  her  a  dead 
thing.  Then  he  got  up.  "  I  won't  have  any  of  'em,"  he 
said  from  the  hearthrug,  in  a  keen  pleasant  tone.  "  I 
hope  you  have  grasped  that.  You  can  of  course  have  a 
tea-party  on  your  own  in  the  servants'  hall,  or  anywhere 
fairly  remote,  and  I'll  manage  my  gang  in  the  music- 
room,  with  —  er  —  Rosalind's  assistance.  But  I  rather 
want  you,  and  you'd  better  come." 

A  pause,  Ursula  preserving  rigid  silence,  though  she 
felt  the  blow.  She  knew  what  that  tone  meant,  when 
John  or  his  father  used  it.  She  was  raging  internally, — 
rage  that  would  have  served  her  well,  had  her  principles 
allowed  her  to  use  it.  If  she  had  broken  out  on  him 
for  five  minutes,  and  treated  his  insolence  as  it  deserved, 
he  would  have  laughed  and  let  her  have  her  friends,  with 
but  short  verbal  resistance.  If  she  had  laid  her  head  on 
the  cloth  and  cried,  he  would  have  done  the  like,  hastily, 
since  emotion  was  the  thing  of  all  things  that  took  effect 
on  Johnny.  Had  she  even  changed  countenance  or  color, 

—  but  she  was  pale  and  still  as  a  statue  to  his  eyes,  and 
even  cut  her  bread  and  ate  mechanically. 

"  Well?  "  said  Johnny.  "  Let's  hear  what  you  propose, 
because  I  want  to  finish.  It's  no  fun  going  back  to  the 
beginning  again  every  time.  I'd  sooner  have  things  clear 

—  where  possible." 

"  I  have  invited  the  Weyburns  already,"  said  Ursula. 

Johnny  sat  down.  "  Very  good,  then,  it's  done,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  My  father  would  say,  wn-invite  them. 
Find  the  best  way  out  for  yourself  and  go  hang.  But 
you've  taken  care  to  choose  people  I  care  for,  and  you've 
probably  told  'em  all  about  it.  Haven't  you?  All  the 
pretty  little  entertainment  your  nice  husband  was  getting 
up?" 


n8  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  I  understood  that  I  could,"  said  Ursula. 

"What  d'you  mean  by  understanding  it?"  flashed 
Johnny.  "  Where  is  your  understanding  ?  Do  I  speak 
English  or  do  I  not?  I  said  I  wouldn't  have  a  lot  of 
ignorant  snobs  filling  up  my  rooms  on  this  occasion,  in  so 
many  words.  I  want  the  people  I  care  for, —  whose  opin- 
ion I  care  for " 

"  You  just  said  you  cared  for  the  Weyburns,"  said 
Ursula. 

"  I  don't  care  that  for  their  opinion  on  art,  and  you 
know  it,  and  I  should  hope  they  do  too.  They  ought  to, 
by  now.  I  promised  —  er  —  I  said  I'd  do  this  thing 
properly,  no  rotting " 

"  Why  not  say  whom  you  promised,"  said  Ursula  scorn- 
fully. "  You  needn't  be  so  careful  of  my  feelings.  I  al- 
ways supposed  you  cared  for  her  opinion,  and  I'm  per- 
fectly ready  to  ask  her  too.  I  implied  as  much." 

Ursula  felt  intensely  moderate  and  reasonable  in  mak- 
ing this  concession.  Johnny  was  almost  desperate  at  her 
density.  He  gripped  the  breakfast-table  with  both  his 
fine  brown  hands. 

"And  I  said  I  would  not,  and  why,  and  I  had  some 
hope  you  followed.  Violet  Shovell's  a  deuced  clever  girl 
in  her  way,  but  she's  not  an  expert,  and  she  knows  it. 
When  the  Falkland  gang  attacked  her,  she  did  the  best 
she  could :  she  '  passed,' —  shunted  the  thing  to  my  hands. 
I'm  not  an  expert  myself,  merely  the  common  go-between, 
but  I'm  a  stage  better  than  her.  I  propose  to  '  pass '  in 
turn  to  Mitchell  and  Fanny  Mitchell  —  who's  first-rate. 
They'll  pass  the  girl  in  the  other  sense,  examiner's,  as  I 
said ;  accept  her,  or  damn  her.  If  she's  damned,  she's 
damned, — and  be  damned  to  her."  Johnny  laughed  sud- 
denly, collapsing  into  his  seat. 

After  the  next  pause  — "  I  never  heard  anyone  use  bad 
language  so  deliberately  as  you  do,"  said  Ursula,  with 
white  disgust.  "  It  may  amuse  you  to  say, —  it  does  not 
me  to  hear." 


THE  ARTIST  119 

"  I  hoped  I  was  speaking  English,"  said  Johnny.  "  I 
was  trying  to,  quite  hard.  And  I  added  a  joke,  that's  all. 
Couldn't  help  it  somehow, —  never  mind." 

"  If  you  talked  what  you  call  good  English  a  little 
oftener,"  said  Ursula, —  and  so  on.  The  discussion  need 
not  be  pursued.  The  result,  after  a  little  more  wrangling, 
was  a  compromise :  with  all  the  advantages,  of  course,  to 
him.  He  deserved  them,  in  his  opinion,  considering  the 
way  he  had  controlled  his  temper,  and  the  trouble  he  had 
taken  to  explain.  Ursula  would  play  hostess,  and  "  be- 
have decently  "  to  his  respected  friends,  who  would  come 
in  any  clothes  they  chose,  and  behave  in  the  manner  that 
suited  them,  since  it  was  obvious  they  were  doing  him  a 
favor  by  coming  at  all ;  and  he  would  accept  the  minimum 
of  hers,  granted  they  were  warned  of  the  bohemian  nature 
of  the  entertainment.  But  they  were  not,  said  Johnny,  to 
make  a  beastly  noise,  either  of  chatter  or  applause :  the 
latter  above  all,  since  there  would  be  nothing  to  applaud, — 
and  Ursula  could  tell  them  so.  She  was  to  have  drinks 
ready,  the  proper  drinks ;  and  people  who  minded  smoking 
could  stay  away. 

ii 

Quentin's  clever  aunt  sent  him  a  letter. 

This  lady,  Miss  Celia  Havant,  requires  a  brief  note, 
though  she  was  far  too  busy  with  useful  works  to  inter- 
vene much  in  the  life  of  idle  moneyed  households  like  the 
Ingestres'  and  Falklands'.  She  was  slightly  acquainted 
with  Ursula  Ingestre,  whom  she  met  occasionally  on  com- 
mittees. Ursula  had,  during  a  casual  meeting  of  the  kind, 
stored  the  fact  that  one  of  the  young  Auberons  was  in 
Miss  Havant's  charge,  and  it  was  thus  that  the  name  Celia, 
which  John  deigned  to  approve,  had  conveyed  Ursula's 
practical  thoughts  direct  to  Hampstead,  rather  than  to 
Arden,  during  the  altercation  with  her  husband. 

Miss  Havant  was  "  Hampstead  "  simply  to  Ursula :  not 
the  aboriginal  type,  in  the  days  before  London  swallowed 


120  THE  ACCOLADE 

the  suburb,  but  its  up-to-date  equivalent.  All  kinds  of 
wise  people  respected  her  deeply,  regardless  of  the  facts 
that  she  was  far  from  wealthy,  what  Ursula  called  "  sud- 
den "  in  manner,  oddly  dressed,  indifferent  to  the  social 
grades  to  a  really  reprehensible  degree,  and  absurdly 
young-looking  to  boot.  When  Mrs.  Falkland  first  saw 
Quentin's  aunt,  issuing  from  a  Saturday  matinee  perform- 
ance at  his  side,  she  thought  Quentin  had  been  deceiving 
her,  calling  himself  unattached,  and  then  seeming  on  such 
easy  terms  with  this  young  and  attractive  companion. 
When  he  introduced  her  as  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Falkland  had 
another  shock  and  looked  again.  Miss  Havant  had  the 
appearance  of  a  tall  fair  boy,  quite  pretty  in  the  face, 
though  thin  and  rather  worn  at  close  quarters.  She  said 
three  things  Mrs.  Falkland  did  not  the  least  understand, 
by  way  of  making  friends,  and  then  nodded  to  her  nephew 
and  departed  —  Mrs.  Falkland  told  Helena  — "  stalking." 
Miss  Havant,  in  philanthropy  as  in  other  things,  was 
given  to  experiment  and  adventure:  but  since  she  was 
clever  and  observant,  by  the  time  she  was  five  and  thirty. 
her  experiments,  as  a  rule,  came  off.  She  rarely  disturbed 
her  nephew  with  her  half-completed  enterprises  or 
partially-solved  problems,  though  Quentin  was  ready 
enough  to  help  her.  That  is  when  the  problems  referred 
to  concerned  men :  when  they  dealt  with  women,  girls,  or 
such  snares  of  the  serious  worker,  he  retired,  firmly,  in 
Miss  Havant's  favor,  or  looked  across  the  distractions  to 
something  else  with  his  steel-colored,  far-reaching  eyes. 
This  peculiarity  in  him  his  aunt  recognized,  as  did  Harold 
Falkland  and  all  Quentin's  real  intimates.  Quentin  strug- 
gled with  a  fierce,  cold  contempt  for  such  as  let  themselves 
be  diverted  from  the  work  of  the  world  by  sexual  en- 
tanglements. It  was  only  conscience,  an  admitted  duty  to 
society,  that  ever  made  him  look  that  way  at  all.  He 
strove  with  the  instinct  in  himself  because,  being  an  honest 
observer,  he  could  not  but  admit  the  weight  of  the  tempta- 
tion in  other  lives.  It  was  a  known  phenomenon,  to  be 


THE  ARTIST  121 

reckoned  with,  so  much  he  allowed,  but  he  had  no  pleasure 
in  dwelling  on  its  manifestations  about  him ;  the  contrary, 
he  detested  the  necessity.  Consequently,  when  Miss 
Havant  found  herself,  that  spring,  on  the  point  of  going 
to  Italy  with  the  problem  of  a  young  female  unsolved  on 
her  hands,  she  tossed  up  between  disturbing  Quentin, 
whom  she  knew  so  well,  about  it:  and  plaguing  Mrs. 
Ingestre,  whom  she  hardly  knew  at  all.  Finally  she  ap- 
pealed to  both. 

The  letter  fell  into  Quentin's  evening  leisure,  the  after- 
dinner  period  he  allowed  himself  in  his  own  room  for 
smoke  and  society.  Young  Falkland  as  usual  was  sharing 
it :  but  to  Harold's  disgust,  Harold's  brother-in-law  had 
also  insinuated  himself  upon  the  scene,  and  lay  lankily  in 
Quentin's  longest  chair,  studying  a  pamphlet  he  had 
picked  up,  in  a  superior  manner,  through  his  eye-glasses. 
Whenever  this  gentleman,  Thomas  by  name,  left  the  com- 
pany of  the  Captain,  who  bored  him,  for  that  of  the 
younger  fry,  a  certain  strain  ensued.  Mr.  Thomas  was  a 
junior  partner  in  a  shipping  firm,  and  just  sufficiently 
older  than  the  pair  to  patronize  them.  Harold's  dislike 
for  him  was  of  a  very  old  date,  and  Quentin  fell  into  his 
way  of  thinking,  easily.  Indeed,  no  man  could  have  called 
Harold  friend  for  long,  who  did  not  dislike  Thomas  in  the 
correct  degree.  Harold  had  never  cared  much  for  his 
elder  sister  before  her  marriage,  but  since  that  event,  he 
spoke  of  her  now  and  then  as  "  poor  Con."  Nothing 
would  induce  him  to  believe  that  Con  liked  Thomas, 
though  he  admitted  the  poor  girl  put  a  good  face  on  it, 
with  a  courage  in  adversity  to  be  expected  of  the  Falkland 
blood.  He  also  pointed  out  to  Helena  that  it  would  be 
better  for  her  even  to  marry  nobody  than  a  crass  creature 
like  Thomas ;  whereto  Helena,  laughing  lightly,  seemed  to 
agree. 

"  Here's  another,"  was  Quentin's  comment  on  his  corre- 
spondence. 

"  Bridget    again  ? "    asked    Harold,    who    knew    Miss 


122  THE  ACCOLADE 

Havant's  vigorous  hand.  Quentin's  young  sister  had  been 
steadily  in  hot  water  throughout  her  youth,  so  he  pre- 
sumed the  disturbing  intelligence  referred  to  her. 

"  It's  not  Bridget,  this  time.  It's  Aunt  Celia, —  j  ust 
her  style?" 

Whereupon,  trusting  Thomas  was  engaged,  he  gave 
Harold  a  specimen. 

"  MY  DEAR,"  [wrote  Miss  Havant], 

"  I  am  vexed  in  mind  about  the  Jacobys,  and  I 
thought  it  better  to  warn  you,  in  case  the  rat  Jacoby  came 
bothering  Bridget  in  my  absence,  and  she  appealed  to  you. 
You  are  to  give  him  nothing,  if  you  please,  and  harden 
Bridget's  heart.  He  is  capable  of  producing  a  new  story 
at  a  moment's  notice,  but,  however  thrilling,  it  will  not  be 
true.  I  have  disproved  most  of  his  original  statements, 
on  application  in  the  proper  quarters. 

"  i.  He  never  possessed  an  estate  in  Poland,  and  I  doubt 
if  he  ever  saw  the  country. 

"  2.  His  wife  is  not  dead,  though  pretty  bad,  I  fear, 
poor  thing.  I  shall  try  to  see  her  in  Geneva  as  I  pass 
through,  and  write  you  the  facts. 

"  3.  He  is  not  destitute, —  owing  to  his  last  disgraceful 
escapade  he  has  means  enough  for  his  present  needs. 
Remember  this. 

"  4.  He  is  not  a  revolutionary,  or  at  least  no  sort  I 
respect " 

"  Does  your  aunt  respect  revolutionaries  ?  "  drawled 
Thomas,  at  this  point.  He  had  been  listening,  of  course. 

"  As  a  rule,"  said  Quentin.  "  I  mean,  if  they  are  pukka 
revolutionaries,  out  to  die  for  a  healthy  cause :  not  simply 
sentimental." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  sentimental  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  mean,  when  they're  set  on  dying  for  a 
cause  that's  lost  already.  Some  of  them  are." 

"  Ireland  ?  "  enquired  Harold. 

"India?"  sneered  Thomas. 


THE  ARTIST  123 

"That  sort  of  thing,"  said  Quentin  to  Harold. 
"  They're  poets  generally." 

"  You  mean  Miss  Havant  doesn't  like  that  sort  the 
best  ?  "  said  Harold,  looking  subtle. 

"  No,"  said  Quentin.  "  Why  should  she,  or  any  per- 
son of  sense  ?  " 

"  Go  on  with  the  Jacobys,"  said  Harold. 

"  Who  are  the  Jacobys  ?  "  cut  in  Thomas,  as  Quentin 
was  about  to  proceed. 

"  Nobody  knows  who  he  is,  and  he  comes  from  no- 
where. Like  most  natives  of  nowhere  he  calls  himself  a 
Polish  Count,  and  we  guess  him  to  be  a  Russian  Jew,  but 
he  might  be  any  nation  out  of  five,  and  any  age  up  to 
fifty." 

"  Eloquence,"  observed  Thomas  to  Harold,  who  did 
not  attend  to  him. 

"  He's  always  turning  up  with  a  new  story,"  pursued 
Quentin,  "  and  bothering  people.  My  sister  calls  him  the 
Old  Pretender, —  he's  certainly  pretended  to  most  things 
in  his  time.  ...  I'd  have  settled  him  long  ago  if  I'd  been 
let  alone,"  said  Quentin  to  Harold,  "  but  needless  to  say, 
I  wasn't." 

"  How  did  you  come  across  him  ?  "  said  Thomas. 

"  My  people  came  across  him  first,  in  the  country. 
He  took  in  a  whole  country  district  when  my  aunt  was 
young,  making  out  he  was  an  exile  in  a  righteous  cause, — 
I  forget  which, —  and  a  popular  hero  at  home.  He 
actually  got  a  woman  my  aunt  knew,  teacher  in  the  same 
school,  to  marry  him.  She  was  quite  a  decent  person, 
and  why  she  married  Jacoby,  goodness  knows." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  stop  at  that,"  said  Thomas.  "  They 
do.  He  seems  able  to  get  at  women  generally.  What's 
he  like  to  look  at  ?  " 

"  He's  rat-like,"  said  Quentin,  with  a  single  icy  glance. 
"  I  call  him  the  rat,  because  he  lives  on  the  community." 
Since  Thomas  was  determined  to  attend,  he  put  the  letter 
away,  and  took  up  the  paper  with  the  other  hand. 


124  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Oh  come,  young  feller,"  said  Thomas,  "  let's  have  the 
rest.  It  was  just  getting  interesting." 

Quentin  did  not  like  being  a  young  feller,  nor  did  he 
want,  on  consideration,  to  tell  Thomas  the  rest.  Harold 
looked  ashamed  of  his  brother-in-law,  who  was  always 
abounding  like  this  in  the  wrong  places.  He  seemed 
equally  blind  to  Auberon's  high  worth  in  the  scheme  of 
things,  and  his  own  vulgar  insignificance.  Nor  was  it 
any  use  Harold  scoring  over  him,  however  brilliant  the 
score;  for  in  private,  Thomas  never  granted  that  it  was 
one,  and  in  public,  Harold  hurt  the  feelings  of  his  sister 
Con.  There  is  no  getting  round  such  family  complica- 
tions, even  for  a  budding  diplomat.  Harold  had  to  bear 
it,  and  help  Auberon  to  do  the  like. 

"  Then  do  the  Jacobys  mean  man  and  wife  ?  "  said  the 
irrepressible  Thomas.  "  What's  Mrs.  Rat  like  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  Mrs.  Jacoby,"  said  Quentin.  "  She 
is  very  ill  in  Geneva,  where  she  has  been  keeping  Mr. 
Jacoby  for  years." 

"  Keeping  him,  has  she  ?    Does  she  earn  ?  " 

"  She  has  a  little  boarding-house,  and  they've  made  it 
pay." 

"  Oh  well,  that  says  something  for  her.  Who's  the 
other  Jacoby,  then, —  a  young  one  ?  " 

"  A  young  one,  yes.     His  daughter." 

"  Oh  come,"  said  Thomas,  turning.  "  Now  we're  get- 
ting to  the  root  of  the  matter,  aren't  we?  "  It  is  not  to  be 
denied  that  Mr.  Thomas  liked  teasing  Quentin,  and  per- 
haps, had  some  excuse.  Thomas  called  him  a  young  prig 
when  he  was  out  of  temper,  and  Quentin,  in  his  company, 
often  so  appeared.  Worst  when  he  was  shyest,  of  neces- 
sity, and  Thomas  had  got  him  safely  on  a  subject  where 
he  was  shy.  But  the  last  thing  he  intended  was  to  refuse 
battle,  on  that  or  any  question  Thomas  might  choose.  He 
settled  to  this  one  now. 

"  What's  her  name  ?  "  asked  Thomas. 

"  Angela,  I  believe.     They  call  her  Jill." 


THE  ARTIST  125 

"Jill?  Jill  Jacoby?  — Oh,  I  say,"  said  Thomas,  hav- 
ing laughed,  "  I  shouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  her." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Quentin. 

"  Not  with  a  name  like  that.     Sounds  fast." 

"  Even  if  it  did,"  said  Harold,  "  which  I  don't  admit, 
it  would  only  prove  the  rapidity  of  her  rat-like  parents, — 
not  her  own." 

"  It's  really  not  worth  arguing,"  said  Quentin  to  Harold. 
"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  to  Thomas,  "  I  can't  help  you  to 
much  about  Miss  Jacoby.  My  sister  has  seen  her  once  or 
twice  up  there,  at  Hampstead ;  and  they're  sorry  for  her, 
naturally." 

"Why  naturally?" 

"  Well,  because  everything's  against  her,  in  life."  The 
boy  paused,  considering.  "  It's  no  joke  to  belong  to  a 
man  like  that,  who  lives  by  sponging  on  her  mother's  old 
friends." 

"  Oh,  that's  how  he  lives  on  the  community,  is  it  ?  " 

"  That's  how  he's  lived  till  now,  when  he  wasn't  living 
on  his  wife  and  daughter.  They  both  work  for  him, — 
but  begging's  his  trade.  He's  a  born  beggar,  on  paper. 
He  doesn't  do  it  in  the  life  so  well." 

"  How  do  you  know,  my  young  friend  ?  "  said  Thomas, 
curiously.  "  Did  he  ever  beg  from  you?  " 

"  Look  here,"  broke  out  Harold,  "  you  mayn't  know 
you're  going  a  little  far,  considering " 

"  Considering  what  ?  "  smiled  Thomas,  "  Auberon  al- 
ways has  first-hand  documents  for  what  he  asserts.  You 
told  me  so  yourself." 

"  I've  got  the  documents,"  said  Quentin.  "  Jacoby 
didn't  beg  from  me  personally,  though, —  he's  too  sharp, — 
nor  my  aunt,  whom  he  knows,  and  who  knows  him.  He 
wrote  to  my  sister,  at  school.  It  was  a  good  letter.  He 
worked  his  daughter,  for  all  she  was  worth.  His  daugh- 
ter is  about  my  sister's  age, —  that  was  a  good  card.  She's 
clever,  too, —  a  genius  —  that  was  another.  She's 
lame " 


126  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Lame  ?  "  gasped  Thomas. 

"  Yes, —  he  made  the  best  of  that.  He  also  knew  my 
sister  was  on  her  own  in  England,  and  probably  mistress 
of  some  cash.  Best  of  all,  Jacoby  had  seen  my  sister 
once,  noticed  the  sort  she  was,  and  made  an  impression 
on  her." 

"  What  impression's  that  ?  "  said  Thomas.  "  I  should 
say,  what  sort  ?  "  He  felt,  more  than  he  liked,  Quentin's 
manner,  but  he  was  still  trying  to  be  funny. 

"  My  sister  is  at  present  sixteen,"  said  Quentin,  "  and 
when  Jacoby  made  the  impression  I  referred  to,  she  was 
twelve.  The  sort  she  is  is  generous  and  hot-headed,  with 
large  ideas  and  —  er  —  ramshackle  head-over-heels  im- 
pulses." Quentin  glanced  sidelong.  "  Falkland  knows 
her.  Jacoby  played  his  cards  well,  and  fetched  Bridget 
easily.  Or  rather,  he  would  have  fetched  her,  only " 

"  She  showed  the  letter  to  you,"  said  Thomas. 

"  She  did,  yes,  providentially.  That's  my  first-hand 
document,  and  I  could  find  it  for  you  if  you  liked.  On 
that  authority  I  pronounced  Jacoby  a  rat,  and  a  sneaking 
rat,  and  a  rat  that  had  far  better,  for  the  community's 
sake,  be  poisoned  off-hand.  I  may  be  wrong,"  said 
Quentin,  suddenly  diverting  his  eyes  to  vacancy.  They 
had  been  fixing  Thomas  throughout  the  story  about  his 
sister. 

"  I  don't  say  you  are,"  said  Thomas,  momentarily  over- 
come by  a  rhetorical  trick  Quentin  had  practised  in  de- 
bate with  great  success.  "  I  say, —  was  Miss  Jill  con- 
cerned in  that?  I  mean,  does  she  back  his  begging 
schemes  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Quentin.     "  I  don't  know  her." 

"  It  looks  fishy  to  me.     Did  you  answer  the  letter  ?  " 

"  I  did.  My  second  year  at  Oxford.  I  could  improve 
on  it  now,"  said  Quentin,  "but  it  wasn't  bad  of  its 
kind." 

"  Did  you  enclose  a  check  ?  "  said  Harold. 

Mr.  Auberon,  still  looking  at  vacancy  in  a  far-reaching 


THE  ARTIST  127 

manner,  did  not  reply.  Harold  was  much  too  acute,  and 
had  to  be  taught  his  place  occasionally. 

"  Has  he  written  since  ?  "  said  Thomas,  after  the  pause. 

"  No,"  said  Quentin,  awakening.  "  To  neither  of  us. 
If  he's  in  London,  though,  we  shall  hear  of  him  probably. 
My  aunt  seems  to  think  so.  I'm  afraid  he's  a  bad  lot. 
It's  a  bore." 

He  looked  down,  and  did  not  seem  deeply  affected,  but 
that  was  his  way.  Harold  knew  he  was  worried  very 
well:  feeling  responsible,  for  his  little  sister,  probably. 

Later  on,  when  Thomas  had  lounged  out,  Harold  heard 
the  rest  of  the  facts.  He  discovered  that  when  Auberon 
said  a  bad  lot,  he  meant  it.  This  did  not  surprise  him,  as 
he  had  noted  the  form  of  words, —  Thomas,  that  amiable 
trifler  had  merely  noted  the  tone  of  voice,  and  passed  it 
over. 

Jacoby  had  proved  himself  a  bad  lot  in  the  strictest 
sense,  and  no  companion  for  his  own  child,  whom  he  had 
brought,  with  his  sick  wife's  consent,  to  London.  What 
Mrs.  Jacoby  in  consenting  did  not  know,  was  that  the 
third  of  the  party  consisted  of  an  Englishwoman  with  a 
little  money,  whom  she  herself  had  befriended  in  a  foreign 
land,  and  received  on  her  premises.  She  was  the  more 
easily  deceived,  that  Jacoby  had  promised  repeatedly  to 
make  his  daughter's  fortune,  when  opportunity  should 
serve  him,  in  her  mother's  native  country.  Opportunity 
served  Jacoby  in  the  manner  we  have  mentioned.  He  had 
a  sentimental  and  rathed  maudlin  fondness  for  the  girl 
Jill,  and  a  very  real  pride  in  her  attainments.  She  had 
been  assured  by  both  parents  all  her  life  that  she  had 
great,  world-shaking  gifts  ;  and  the  fact  that  she  was  lame, 
unknown,  and  practically  destitute,  was  to  make  no  dif- 
ference to  her  shaking  the  world.  Jacoby  was,  if  nothing 
else,  a  romantic,  and  he  talked  to  his  daughter  beautifully, 
on  the  way  to  London.  Unfortunately,  when  he  got 
there,  his  taste  for  living  in  the  toils  of  romance,  how- 
ever sordid,  attracted  him  so  irresistibly  to  the  lowest 


128  THE  ACCOLADE 

walks  of  theatrical  society,  that  Jill  took  her  prospects  into 
her  own  hands,  soon  after  arrival,  and  applied  to  Miss 
Havant,  whose  address  she  had,  for  independent  assist- 
ance. 

Her  account  of  her  father's  habits  was  such  that  Miss 
Havant  urged  her  strenuously  to  find  some  way  of  living 
apart  from  him  if  she  could.  She  offered  to  take  her  back 
to  Geneva,  but  that  the  girl  refused.  She  had  had  enough 
of  the  hopeless  struggle  in  Geneva,  and  preferred  to  try 
her  luck  in  a  fresh  land.  So  Miss  Havant,  who  never 
discouraged  enterprise,  sent  her  to  Mrs.  Ingestre  for  ad- 
vice, with  an  introduction. 

The  remains  of  the  note  to  her  nephew  described  these 
final  steps  of  hers,  and  merely  appealed  to  him,  since  he 
knew  Mrs.  Ingestre,  to  keep  an  eye  if  he  could  on  the 
lame  girl  Jacoby  and  her  fate,  until  Miss  Havant  herself 
returned  from  Italy. 

"  So  there  we  are,"  said  Quentin,  laying  down  the  letter. 
"  What  do  you  make  of  it?  " 

"  Looks  as  if  your  aunt  trusted  her,"  observed  Harold. 
Quentin  admitted  it,  only  his  eyes  reserved  a  certain  dis- 
trust of  his  aunt.  She  was  over-sanguine,  he  considered. 

"  What  about  the  mother?  "  said  Harold. 

"  Leave  her  out,"  said  Quentin.  "  She's  either  too  ill 
to  matter,  or  a  fool.  She  couldn't  have  let  the  girl  come 
away  in  the  fellow's  company  otherwise.  My  aunt  means 
to  see  if  anything  can  be  made  of  her,  but  I  doubt  it.  She 
had  better  be  struck  off." 

"  You're  jolly  charitable,  this  evening,"  said  Harold, 
looking  at  him.  He  discounted  the  severity  of  Auberon's 
form  of  speech,  habitually.  Besides,  it  struck  him  he 
looked  tired  to-night.  He  overworked,  of  course:  noth- 
ing the  Folklands  could  do  would  prevent  him  from  work- 
ing half  the  night.  Auberon  was  one  of  the  fellows  who 
always  have  too  many  irons  in  the  fire,  and  do  all  things 
too  intently.  Here  he  was  taking  this  new  affair,  none  of 
his  business,  much  too  hard.  Harold  knew  of  course  how 


THE  ARTIST  129 

he  secretly  hated  the  type  of  thing:  that  was  largely  the 
reason  of  his  manner,  probably, —  he  was  schooling  his 
own  distaste. 

"  Perhaps  the  girl  will  get  a  job,"  said  Harold  cheer- 
fully. "  There  are  plenty  going." 

"  A  cripple,"  said  Quentin. 

That  again  was  characteristic.  Quentin,  in  coming  of  a 
hardy  race  of  fighters  and  climbers,  had  a  natural  aversion 
from  physical  deficiency,  the  halt  and  maimed.  It 
cropped  out  like  that,  involuntarily,  when  he  was  most  bent 
on  being  kind.  Harold  pondered  for  a  time  over  the 
somewhat  baffling  problem  of  young  girls  who  were  crip- 
ples. Having  an  ingenious  mind,  he  tried  to  get  round  it. 

"  It's  only  her  knee,"  he  said.  "  Not  hip-disease  or 
anything  really  revolting.  What  I  mean  is,  she  can  prob- 
ably get  about  and  see  to  things." 

It  did  not  seem  to  console  Quentin,  wrapped  in  the 
wider  speculation  as  to  whether  Miss  Jacoby,  being  lame, 
had  better  have  been  born  at  all.  "  If  I  ever  become 
really  diseased,  Falkland,"  his  meditations  finished  of  a 
sudden,  "  or  idiotic,  or  useless,  I  shall  expect  you  to  shoot 
me  through  the  head." 

"  Right,"  said  Harold,  cordially.  "  Same  here.  Now 
let's  hear  what  you  think  of  doing,  about  the  rat's  daugh- 
ter." 

"  Oh,  doing," —  Quentin's  face  changed, — "  that's 
straight  enough.  I  must  see  the  woman  whose  address 
she  had  —  Mrs.  Ingestre  —  and  get  at  her  through  the 
society." 

"  And  what  if  she  hasn't  used  the  address  ?  " 

*'  I  shan't  begin  to  think  what,  until  I  find  she  hasn't 
used  it.  Nothing,  probably.  If  she's  taken  the  other 
alternative,  and  rejoined  her  rat-like  father,  she's  not 
worth  bothering  about." 

Harold  discounted  this  in  turn.  "  She  might  like  her 
rat-like  father,"  he  said  easily.  "  People  do." 

Quentin  took  it  calmly,  his  hands  behind  his  head. 


130  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Her  rat-like  father  might  like  her,"  he  substituted, 
"  since  she  has  fed  him  for  years.  If  he  had  fed  her,  like 
the  generality  of  fathers,  I  might  think  the  other  way  pos- 
sible. As  it  is,  I  don't." 

"  Good,"  said  Harold.  "  We're  getting  on.  The  only 
thing  you're  overlooking  is " 

"Well?"  said  Quentin. 

"  That  women,  as  such,  like  the  people  they  feed.  They 
like  them  for  being  fed, —  no  other  reason  necessary." 

"  Jove !  "  said  Quentin.  "  That's  rather  smart, —  so 
they  do." 

Harold  did  not  the  least  suppose  he  was  convinced,  for 
all  this  apparent  courtesy.  He  was  used  to  being  the  dust 
under  Auberon's  boots,  and  never  more  than  when  he  was 
courteously  treated. 

"  We  are  dealing,"  he  announced,  "  with  a  girl  with 
brains." 

"By  Jove!"  said  Harold. 

"  There's  simply  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Quentin.  "  Look 
here :  who  has  been  running  that  infernal  boarding-house 
at  Geneva, —  at  a  profit,  mind, —  for  the  last  five  years  ? 
Not  the  mother,  obviously.  Servants,  in  foreign  parts, 
can't  be  counted  upon.  The  girl  did  all  that,  and  she 
trained  herself  for  a  profession  too.  She  has  certificates 
from  professors  of  elocution  at  Geneva,  real  certificates, — 
and  she  has  given  readings  and  so  on  at  the  swagger 
English  hotels  along  the  lake.  So  I  am  informed,  by 
Bridget,  whose  endless  details  are  of  use  sometimes.  .  .  . 
Very  good,  she  has  done  it,  the  parent-rats  have  not. 
Mrs.  Rat  —  I  beg  her  pardon,  I'm  getting  as  bad  as 
Thomas  —  Mrs.  Jacoby  confined  herself  to  telling  every- 
body in  reach  the  girl  was  a  natural  genius,  and  had  no 
call  to  work  at  all.  Geniuses  needn't  do  anything,  you 
know:  they  just  exist." 

"  Oh,  don't  get  on  to  geniuses,"  implored  Harold. 
"  I'm  quite  ready  to  have  them  put  down,  anyhow. 
Cripples  I  can  do  with,  just,  but  I  never  yet  could  do  with 


THE  ARTIST  131 

any  genius  I  met,  for  long.  Except  you,  of  course,"  he 
added. 

Quentin  turned  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  as  though  he  had 
a  passing  thought  of  dealing  physically  with  Harold,  but 
the  desire  evaporated.  He  had,  of  late,  grown  through 
such  youthful  follies.  Besides,  occasionally  Falkland  said 
a  thing  of  use,  and  he  was  always  a  relief  from  arduous 
study.  He  was  a  very  pleasant  kind  of  emissary  from  the 
more  frivolous  quarter  of  the  house.  Harold's  slim,  small 
form  was  exquisitely  dressed  at  this  moment,  for  he  was 
going  out  with  his  sister  shortly,  and  had  only  come  in 
since  dinner  to  smoke  with  Auberon,  shield  him  from 
Thomas,  and  submit  to  instruction  at  his  hands. 

"  Having  brains,"  the  latter  proceeded  after  a  pause, 
"  Miss  Jacoby  might  have  the  sense,  just  conceivably,  to 
keep  clear  of  her  father,  however  great  her  feminine 
instinct  for  feeding  him  might  be." 

"  Drop  it,"  murmured  Harold. 

"  Not  to  mention  the  rat  is  being  fed,  presumably,  by 
another  female.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lord,"  broke  out  Quentin  un- 
expectedly, "  why  are  women  such  fools  ?  " 

There  was  a  light  tap  at  the  door. 

"  There's  Helena,"  said  Harold.     "  Let's  ask  her." 

"  No,  don't,"  said  Quentin,  shifting  his  pose.  "  I 
mean,  I'd  rather  you  didn't,  just  now." 

"  She's  always  ready  to  argue,"  said  Harold,  rising : 
but  he  added  — "  Right," —  as  he  passed  his  friend,  for  he 
saw  the  point.  Helena  was  going  out  to  enjoy  herself, 
and  it  was  undoubtedly  rather  a  nasty  story.  Not  but 
what  Helena  could  stand  the  worst  things.  She  visited 
hospital  wards  for  incurable  children,  which  had  always 
seemed  to  Harold  one  of  the  worst  things  in  the  world. 
Still,  as  he  opened  Auberon's  door  to  her  now,  in  all  her 
young  brilliancy,  clad  in  shimmering  white  and  gold,  and 
radiant  with  happiness  in  prospect,  he  felt  that  Auberon 
was  right  as  always,  and  it  was  not  the  moment  for  de- 
pressing subjects. 


13*  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Come  in,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Quentin,  on  his  feet.  "  I 
say,  we  are  frightfully  smoky  here."  He  flung  up  a  win- 
dow one-handed,  for  Miss  Falkland  was  not  the  type  of 
young  lady  who  minded  draughts. 

She  did  come  in  for  a  moment.  She  never  invaded 
Quentin's  working-quarters  for  long.  Helena  had  a 
strong  sense  of  the  tacit  compact  that  had  brought  him 
to  inhabit  them  originally ;  and  the  heaviest  responsibility 
for  guarding  his  privacy  devolved,  she  considered,  upon 
herself.  Quentin  himself  had  no  idea  how  much  of  the 
quiet  and  comfort  he  enjoyed  he  owed  to  her. 

"  My  word,"  said  Harold.  "  Is  that  the  latest?  "  He 
alluded  to  his  sister's  toilette,  as  to  which  things  he  held 
himself  a  judge. 

"  No,  the  last  but  three,"  said  Helena,  crushing  him. 

"  Well,  it's  been  titivated,  then,"  said  Harold.  "  What 
you  call  done  up." 

"  You're  extremely  clever,"  said  Helena.  "  The  flounce 
has  been  mended,  where  you  tore  it  in  the  carriage  door ; 
and  I  got  a  new  sash  with  tails,  to  cover  up  the  mend." 
She  added  for  his  consolation,  as  she  drew  her  cloak  about 
her, — "  Dance-frocks  are  sure  to  get  torn,  anyhow :  and 
in  a  crush,  no  one  sees." 

"  There  isn't  anyone  special  to-night,  then,"  said  Har- 
old, looking  intelligent.  "  I  began  to  think,  when  you 
were  so  long  over  dressing,  that  there  might  be.  ...  Look 
here,  Helena."  He  took  her  arm  in  his  wiliest  manner. 
"  What's  little  Mrs.  Ingestre  like  ?  Is  she  a  decent  sort 
of  body  in  common  life?  Auberon  wants  to  know." 

Helena  blushed,  and  drew  back  a  little,  surprised.  She 
did  not  answer  for  a  second,  and  during  that  instant, 
Harold's  eyes  shot  to  her  face.  Harold  piqued  himself 
on  being  "  on  the  spot "  in  daily  life.  He  was  sure  that 
he  alone  of  the  family  took  note  of  the  fact  that  Helena 
blushed  when  Ingestre's  name  was  mentioned. 

"  She  is  very  nice,"  said  Helena.  "  Rather  quiet.  I 
thought  Mr.  Auberon  had  seen  her." 


THE  ARTIST  133 

"  He  didn't  get  very  far  at  first  acquaintance,"  said 
Harold.  "  Especially  as  the  Mater's  tactful  methods 
brought  out  all  Mrs.  Ingestre's  worst  side." 

"  I  never  said  that,"  exclaimed  Quentin. 

"  No,  but  you  can't  deny  it  happened,"  said  Harold. 
"  Now,  everybody  has  a  good  side  as  well  as  a  bad  one, 
haven't  they,  Helena  ?  And  you  seem  to  come  across  the 
family  most."  He  glanced  at  her  again.  "  Auberon  there 
is  fighting  shy  of  facing  her, —  and  longing  to  ask  you  to 
undertake  his  business." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Quentin,  in  answer  to 
Helena's  look.  "  I  shouldn't  think  of  it." 

His  tone  was  vexed,  chiefly  because  Harold  had  hit  the 
mark  again,  and  it  would  have  been  infinite  relief  to  shift 
Miss  Jill  Jacoby's  business  to  Miss  Falkland's  far  from 
incapable  hands.  But  also  because  it  was  evident  Harold 
was  teasing,  and  he  did  not  see  why  Helena  should  be 
teased,  nor  what  ground  there  could  be  for  such  a  pro- 
ceeding. 

"Of  course,  if  I  could  do  anything "  she  said 

shyly,  her  direct  and  limpid  eyes  on  his. 

"  You  couldn't,"  said  Quentin,  returning  the  look. 

"  Hark  at  him,"  scoffed  Harold.  "  Once  he's  touched  a 
thing,  no  one  can  do  anything  but  himself.  If  he  under- 
took in  a  rash  moment  to  order  you  a  petticoat,  Helena, 
he'd  go  through  with  it  to  the  bitter  end." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  it  would  be  a  very  nice  petticoat," 
said  Helena.  "  Well-made, —  and  well-paid,  too :  he'd 
think  of  the  poor  work-girls.  I'd  rather  trust  him  than 
you.  Yours  would  be  cheap  and  rustly, —  showy, —  shot- 
silk, —  yes,  it  would!  Don't  mind  him,  Mr.  Auberon, 
I'm  carrying  him  off.  Good  night." 


in 

Mrs.  Ingestre's  letter,  asking  Quentin  to  her  husband's 
"  little  gathering  of  friends  "  on  the  last  Sunday  of  April, 


134  THE  ACCOLADE 

crossed  with  one  from  him  to  her,  mentioning  private 
business,  and  inquiring  if  he  could  call. 

Ursula  was  surprised  by  the  request,  and  rather  grati- 
fied. She  had  liked  Quentin,  though  she  showed  little  of 
the  liking  at  the  time,  and  spoke  of  him  lightly  to  her  hus- 
band. His  manner  during  Mrs.  Falkland's  diplomatic 
visit,  to  his  hostess's  experienced  eye,  had  been  exactly 
right.  He  had  not  been  in  an  easy  position  on  that  occa- 
sion, but  he  had  done  nothing  with  dignity  and  compe- 
tence. Beyond  that  again,  he  had  affected  Ursula 
sentimentally.  He  was  the  type,  precisely,  which  had  been 
the  ideal  of  her  first  girlhood.  He  belonged  by  all  his 
traditions  to  the  Anglo-Indian  community  she  liked  and 
understood.  Without  being  himself  military,  he  had  the 
military  cast,  well-brushed  and  straight-backed,  self- 
reliant  and  restful, —  the  ideal  of  fifty  out  of  a  hundred 
English  girls.  He  was  attentive  and  respectful  to  her  — 
unlike  John.  Ursula,  in  the  court  of  her  girlhood,  had 
been  used  to  being  upheld  and  consulted,  since  she  was  an 
eldest-born.  As  a  girl  she  had  "  liked  boys,"  and  been  a 
"  good  hand  with  them,"  and  later  she  continued  in  the 
same  way  to  invite  their  confidence.  With  a  sentimental- 
ist of  twenty,  this  is  pleasant  enough :  over  thirty  it  grows 
suspect  rather.  The  Ingestres,  who  had  violent  passions, 
but  were  not  sentimentalists,  disliked  and  suspected  the 
tendency.  Johnny  himself  sneered  faintly  at  Ursula's 
"  acolytes,"  as  he  called  them,  charitable  or  otherwise,  but 
he  was  more  tolerant  of  them,  on  the  whole,  than  his  rela- 
tions. He  even  condescended  to  tease  them,  at  times. 
Live  and  let  live,  was  Johnny's  theory,  and  granted  the 
"  rough-haired  "  amused  Ursula,  they  did  not  hurt  him. 
He  was  a  little  surprised  at  her  taste,  that  was  all. 

On  the  morning  when  Quentin  called,  John  happened 
to  be  present  passingly,  and  took  his  measure.  Quentin 
had  no  idea  he  would  be  regarded  at  once  as  one  of  a 
gang;  he  was  not  accustomed  to  regard  himself  like  that, 
and  his  bearing  and  behavior  did  not  match  any  such  mod- 


THE  ARTIST  135 

est  supposition.  John  remarked  the  difference.  He  was 
neither  the  sleek  acolyte,  to  look  upon,  nor  was  he  "  rough- 
haired," —  he  was  rather  a  new  type.  Johnny  wondered 
what  he  was  doing  with  Ursula,  and  tried  to  find  out,  at 
the  expense  of  considerable  ingenuity.  He  made  Ursula 
coldly  furious,  by  his  untimely  interest  in  her  proceedings, 
but  he  produced  no  effect  on  Quentin  at  all.  Finding  a 
man  present,  he  put  off  his  business  with  Mrs.  Ingestre, 
and  talked  politics.  Quentin's  political  views  were  di- 
rectly opposed  to  John's,  and  he  expressed  them  well.  On 
two  occasions  he  refrained  from  putting  his  host  and  elder 
right,  with  such  a  visible  effort  of  courtesy,  that  Johnny 
acutely  inferred  he  must  be  wrong.  As  he  had  been  talk- 
ing rather  in  the  air,  even  to  his  own  consciousness,  this 
was  not  surprising;  but  the  fact  of  being  wrong  annoyed 
him,  and  he  went  away  to  look  up  the  authorities. 

When  he  was  gone,  Ursula  apologized  for  him  indi- 
rectly. Quentin  wished  earnestly  she  would  not  do  this, 
—  it  was  just  what  had  vexed  his  soul  before,  when  she 
talked  to  Mrs.  Falkland.  The  pair  were  husband  and 
wife,  that  was  enough  for  him.  Added  to  which,  there 
was  no  need  for  apology  on  her  part.  Her  husband  had 
disturbed  nothing  to  matter,  and  he  had  said,  even  in  that 
short  time,  several  good  things.  Two  of  these,  both  par- 
adoxes that  would  hardly  bear  investigation,  and  both 
personal  to  those  in  high  places,  Quentin  had  stored  up, 
determining  to  use  them  again  if  he  got  a  chance.  He 
only  regretted  he  had  left  the  Oxford  clubs,  where  they 
could  have  been  launched  in  public  to  most  advantage. 
Nowadays,  caught  under  the  sober  wing  of  the  Civil 
Service,  he  had  to  go  more  needfully  in  what  he  said. 
John,  whose  father  and  grandfather  had  moved  in  high, 
almost  heavenly  circles  of  political  society,  ought  to  have 
gone  more  heedfully  still :  only  he  did  not. 

"How  is  Miss  Falkland?"  said  Ursula  to  her  visitor, 
giving  him,  by  her  gracious  smile,  an  inward  start.  But, 
casting  his  mind  backward,  he  saw  the  case  immediately. 


136  THE  ACCOLADE 

It  was  Mrs.  Falkland's  fault, —  she  would  go  on,  he  sup- 
posed, letting  him  in  for  these  misunderstandings.  It  was 
trying,  but  all  in  the  day's  work.  It  seems,  in  this  world, 
that  at  twenty- four  years  old,  and  with  no  marked  disad- 
vantages, one  cannot  get  entirely  free  of  girls,  gossip,  and 
suchlike.  Quentin  was  philosophical. 

"  She  seems  all  right,"  he  said  calmly.  "  She  has  been 
to  seventeen  parties  this  week,  her  brother  told  me.  You 
have  to  be  fairly  fit,  I  should  think,  to  stand  that." 

"  Youth,"  laughed  Ursula.     "  Don't  you  go  with  her  ?  " 

"  Not  generally,"  said  Quentin.  "  Unless  they  specially 
ask  me,  or  unless  for  any  reason  her  brother  can't."  He 
considered  a  minute.  "  I've  no  right  to  be  still  on  their 
premises,  really,  only  Mrs.  Falkland's  so  jolly  kind.  They 
only  offered  originally  to  harbor  me,  while  T  coaled  up 
for  an  examination.  Now  that's  all  done." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Ursula,  in  her  cool  way,  as  though  she 
accepted  the  statement  of  facts,  but  reserved  her  judg- 
ment on  them.  She  had,  of  course,  "  placed  "  Quentin, 
with  regard  to  Helena,  just  in  the  manner  Mrs.  Falkland 
wished.  Ladies,  even  as  unwise  as  Mrs.  Falkland,  can 
convey  these  fine  impressions  easily, —  particularly  when 
the  other  party  is  willing  to  be  persuaded  of  the  fact.  It 
happened  to  be  convenient  to  Ursula  to  believe  Mrs. 
Falkland's  daughter,  that  popular  young  beauty,  definitely 
destined,  if  not  already  engaged.  And  since  she  wel- 
comed the  idea,  no  apparent  indifference  on  Quentin's  side 
was  to  shake  it,  at  present. 

She  talked,  chattered  to  Quentin  almost:  with  persist- 
ence, as  though  for  relief,  and  he  answered  willingly. 
Presently,  being  treated  in  so  friendly  a  spirit,  he  took  his 
plunge. 

"  Mrs.  Ingestre,  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  bothering 
you.  The  fact  is,  I've  been  commissioned  by  my  aunt  to 
inquire  into  a  case  she's  interested  in.  Do  you  know  a 
Miss  Jacoby?" 

"  Jacoby?  "  Ursula  considered,  a  wrinkle  of  business  in 


THE  ARTIST  137 

her  brow.  "  Yes,  to  be  sure.  She  came  to  me  last  week 
about  a  situation.  In  some  distress,  wasn't  she? 
Where's  my  book?" 

She  rose  and  went  to  her  writing-table,  composed  and 
competent  of  aspect.  Inwardly  she  was  vexed,  as  she  did 
not  want  to  talk  business  with^Quentin.  Business  was  a 
background  to  her  rare  pleasures,  and  she  had  hoped  he 
would  prove  a  pleasure  simply.  One  has  to  bear  these 
disappointments,  though :  and  Ursula  was  disappointed 
with  dignity. 

"  It's  rather  a  distressful  case,"  said  Quentin :  and  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  her,  with  the  greatest  confidence  and  sim- 
plicity, all  about  it.  He  had  not  a  moment's  scruple  in  so 
doing,  backed  by  his  aunt's  advice.  Ursula  listened  to 
Jill's  history  in  silence,  her  finger  in  her  book  of  notes. 
She  had  taken  notes  of  Jill  for  the  society,  and  now  she 
supplemented  them  cautiously.  The  fact  that  Jill's  mother 
had  taught  in  the  same  establishment  as  Quentin's  aunt 
aroused  her  first  comment. 

"  Do  you  mean  she  is  a  lady  ?  "  she  asked. 

"A  lady?"  said  Quentin,  brought  up  short.  "Oh, 
yes." 

"  Excuse  me,  I  used  the  word  technically,  we  have  to. 
My  work  for  girls  falls  into  two  classes,  chiefly  depending 
upon  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Quentin,  "  you  can  take  it  from  me  she  is." 

"  You  mean,  I  ought  to  know,"  said  Ursula.  "  But  it's 
not  so  easy.  Wait  till  you've  been  deceived  as  often  as  I 
have,  by  a  good  manner.  I  had  an  impression  from  what 
the  girl  said,  that  she  belonged  to  theatrical  people,  or  at 
least  had  lived  among  them  abroad.  They  always  speak 
so  well,  it's  hard  to  be  sure,  not  to  mention  she's  a  foreign 
accent.  I  gathered  she  was  respectable,"  she  added, 
nervously  patting  her  hair.  "  I  did  not  mean  that  for  a 
moment.  I  was  rather  sorry  for  her." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Quentin  expectantly. 

"  But  as  for  her  being  a  lady  born,  I  admit  it  did  not 


138  THE  ACCOLADE 

occur  to  me.  I  may  have  done  wrong  in  consequence, 
and  I  shall  have  to  explain  to  your  aunt.  She  is  too  young 
to  be  a  teacher,  as  she  proposed :  she  looks  a  child.  The 
stage,  of  course,  is  out  of  the  question,  I  stopped  all  idea 
of  that  at  once.  There  are  few  posts  for  companions 
going :  and  for  secretary  in  these  days  you  must  be  quali- 
fied, though  breeding's  of  no  importance." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Quentin. 

"  It's  a  Miss  Darcy  I  sent  her  to,"  said  Ursula.  "  The 
Honorable, —  very  good  family,  though  eccentric,  with  a 
little  flat.  The  girl  seems  to  suit  her,  at  least  she  has  not 
complained;  and  as  she  has  complained  within  the  first 
week  of  every  one  I  have  recommended  her  till  now,  I  was 
rather  pleased  about  it." 

"  It's  awfully  kind  of  you,"  said  Quentin.  He  felt 
there  was  something  coming  still. 

"  The  girl  said  she  could  work  with  her  hands,  and 
would  be  glad  even  of  a  modest  salary :  so,  as  we  had  this 
particularly  nice  post  going  in  a  good  house,  I  offered  to 
recommend  her,  on  the  strength  of  your  aunt's  name."  A 
short  pause.  "  But  it  is  domestic  service,  no  more,"  said 
Ursula.  "A  general  servant." 

Quentin  moved  and  blushed.  "A  servant?"  he  said. 
Mrs.  Ingestre  dropped  her  book  of  notes,  and  sat  down 
again  near  him. 

"  There  is  nothing  shameful  in  domestic  service,"  she 
said,  smiling,  "  especially  nowadays.  I  often  tell  John  we 
shall  all  come  to  it  in  time,  if  servants  go  on  being  the 
trouble  they  are.  I  might  say  I  am  in  domestic  service 
myself."  Ursula  leant  back  in  her  velvet  chair,  and 
folded  her  white  hands  in  her  lap. 

"  No,  really,"  said  Quentin,  protesting. 

"  I  assure  you  I  am,  and  I  only  wish  I  had  Miss 
Jacoby's  freedom.  She  has  a  very  easy  time  of  it  really. 
An  old  spinster  lady,  with  methodical  ways  and  regular 
habits,  is  far  easier  to  look  after,  I  can  tell  you,  than  a 
man." 


THE  ARTIST  139 

Since  she  would  adopt  this  personal  line,  Mr.  Auberon 
determined  to  argue  it. 

"  But  you  have  servants  of  your  own  to  help,"  he  said. 

"  That  makes  more  work,  not  less,"  said  Ursula.  "  Ask 
my  mother-in-law,  who  has  three  houses,  and  a  perma- 
nent staff  of  five-and-twenty  people." 

"  Five-and-twenty !  I  say !  "  murmured  Quentin.  He 
pondered  the  ordainment  of  so  large  a  mass  of  humanity 
for  a  moment, —  it  had  never  struck  him  that  women  had 
chances  such  as  this.  He  even  wondered  if  Mrs.  Ingestre 
was  exaggerating,  or  jesting:  her  expression  gave  him  no 
clue.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  rather  ?  "  he  cautiously  said. 

"  It  will  not,"  said  Ursula.  She  examined  her  fine 
hand,  and  the  rings  upon  it.  "  I  shall  have  them,  of 
course,  in  my  turn.  We  are  wandering  from  the  subject, 
Mr.  Auberon.  I  can  give  you  Miss  Jacoby's  address,  of 
course,  but  if  you  are  proposing  to  see  her " 

"  Well?  "  he  queried,  as  she  stopped. 

"  I  shouldn't,  that's  all :  considering  the  peculiarities  of 
Miss  Darcy,  and  the  terms  on  which  the  girl  was  en- 
gaged." 

"  What  are  the  peculiarities  of  Miss  Darcy  ?  " 

"  Extremely  fussy,  poor  old  thing, —  a  bundle  of  nerves. 
She's  half  an  invalid  into  the  bargain.  You  could  write, 
of  course,  if  there's  anything  you  wish  to  say :  only  I  give 
you  my  word  the  girl's  in  good  hands,  no  need  to  trouble 
further.  I'll  answer  to  your  aunt." 

Ursula  saw  herself  on  her  customary  platform,  direct- 
ing and  counseling  youth.  She  adopted  this  tone  alter- 
nately with  the  other  more  playful  one,  being  still  at  the 
stage  of  experiment  with  this  new  "  acolyte "  of  hers. 
He  was  so  attentive  and  docile  in  appearance,  that  she  had 
no  idea  but  that  he  would  fall  in  with  all  she  proposed. 
She  was  the  more  surprised  when,  after  looking  before 
him  for  a  moment,  he  remarked — "  I'm  afraid  I  must  go." 

"Must?"  said  Ursula,  lifting  her  brows. 

"  Yes.     You  see,  my  aunt  wrote  to  me  yesterday  from 


140  THE  ACCOLADE 

Geneva, —  she  stopped  there  going  through.  She  meant 
to  go  straight  on  south,  but  she  didn't, —  she  waited  four 
days.  She  found  the  poor  woman  —  this  girl's  mother  — 
was  dying,  that  was  all.  She  couldn't  leave  her  at  that 
point,  so  she  stayed  till  the  end." 

"  It  was  extremely  kind  of  her "  began  Ursula. 

"  No,  it  wasn't, —  excuse  me, —  she  had  known  her 
prety  well,  in  youth,  you  see,  and  Mrs.  Jacoby  had  no  other 
English  friends.  She  had  learned  about  her  husband's 
behavior  too, —  plenty  of  people  to  tell  her  that,  of  course. 
To  turn  your  back  on  a  person  in  that  state  —  a  country- 
woman—  who  was  being  squeezed  out  of  existence  by 
sheer  bad  luck " 

"  It  was  her  own  fault,"  said  Ursula  calmly. 

"  Granted,"  he  returned,  with  almost  startling  dryness, 
and  paused  anew.  "  Anyhow  one  thing's  clear,  that  I 
must  take  the  letter  round  to  the  kid,  give  her  the  news. 
That's  the  first  thing." 

"  I  will  do  so,  if  you  like,"  said  Ursula.  "  Or  you 
could  send  the  letter." 

"  Thanks,"  he  returned,  with  perfect  obstinacy.  "  I 
can't  let  things  slide  any  longer." 

"  I  didn't  propose  that  you  should,"  observed  Ursula 
demurely. 

"  No."  He  glanced  at  her.  "  I  believe  I'm  being 
beastly  rude,"  he  said,  awaking  slightly.  "  But  it's  a 
pretty  rotten  affair,  taken  altogether,  and  I've  been  worry- 
ing at  it  a  good  deal.  Nothing  to  be  made  of  it,  you'd 
say, —  and  yet  —  there  may  be,  don't  you  see.  I'd  like  to 
reckon  the  chances.  I've  got  to,  as  a  fact,  since  I  was 
left  in  charge.  I've  had  about  enough  at  second-hand." 

Ursula,  who  could  hardly  make  him  out,  did  not  reply. 

"  Eternal  reports,"  pursued  Quentin  reflectively,  "  get- 
ting round  corners,  through  meanings,  discounting 
people's  statements,  discarding  rot.  I  get  sick  of  that  in 
the  end." 

"  Thank  you !  "  laughed  Ursula. 


THE  ARTIST  141 

"  I'm  beastly  sorry,  Mrs.  Ingestre."  His  own  smile 
answered  hers.  "  I'm  sorry  if  I  express  myself  badly,  but 
it's  a  fact.  So  long  as  you're  not  in  touch  with  people, 
you  can't  do  much  good.  You  must  know  that,  since  I 
gather  you're  always  doing  it." 

"  Doing  good  ?     I'm  not,  indeed,  Mr.  Auberon." 

"  Well,  wanting  to.  If  you  want  to  deal  with  a  case,  I 
mean  to  make  anything  of  it,  you  go  and  interview  the 
subject,  don't  you?  Of  course  you  consult  your  commit- 
tee first,"  he  appended  hastily. 

"  I  don't,  invariably,"  said  Ursula.     "  It  wastes  time." 

"  You're  laughing  at  me,"  said  Quentin.  "  Never 
mind.  I'm  sure  you'd  rather  not  live  on  reports  and  — 
er  —  conjectures,  when  you  can  see  with  your  own 
eyes." 

"  Seeing  will  not  help  you  much  in  this  case,"  observed 
Ursula.  "  That  is  partly  what  I  meant.  The  girl's  ap- 
pearance is  misleading.  Personally,  I  wouldn't  trust  her, 
at  least  in  certain  ways." 

Quentin  paused  momentarily.  "  There  you  are,"  he 
said.  "  She  misled  you, —  and  consequently  I  must  take 
your  view,  and  perhaps  be  doubly  misled." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Auberon " 

"  But  you  see  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  obviously  arguing 
with  himself,  not  her.  "  Simply  because  this  subject's  a 
little  female,  I'm  supposed  to  grab  you,  or  my  aunt,  or 
Miss  Falkland,  say,  and  stick  you  in  front  of  me.  What's 
more  I've  a  deadly  inclination  to  do  it, —  do  the  conven- 
tional,—  just  as  you're  inclined  to  give  me  the  excuse. 
You've  given  me  three  at  least  while  we've  been  talking. 
.  .  .  Well,  strikes  me  there  are  certain  contingencies, — 
such  as  one's  mother  being  struck  off  the  list  of  the  living, 
for  instance, —  that  can't  be  dodged  quite  in  that  way.  I 
could  send  the  letter,  of  course, —  only  I  shan't.  I'm 
going  to  see  her  to-morrow." 

"Do  you  want  my  permission?"  said  Ursula.  "I'm 
not  your  aunt." 


142  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  No,"  said  Quentin.  He  had  subsided  again  after  his 
outburst,  and  looked  a  trifle  ashamed  of  himself,  but  not 
much.  His  eyes  moved  on  to  Mrs.  Ingestre,  considering 
her.  She  was  laughing,  and  looked  nice.  "  Perhaps  I 
oughtn't  to  have  said  it,"  he  admitted,  "  but  you  never  get 
an  opinion  straight  until  you  have  stated  it :  and  anyhow, 
you  have  been  so  kind." 

Ursula  told  herself  she  did  not  like  him,  but  she  did. 
She  liked  him  dangerously,  almost.  She  had  been  trying 
half -consciously  to  attract  him,  but  he  was  not  to  be 
beguiled.  She  felt  in  him,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  the 
upper  air.  He  was  considering  principles  more  than  per- 
sons, facts  more  than  feelings,  obviously;  really  aloof, 
above  small  scheming  and  sensuality,  not  pretending  to  be 
so,  like  Ursula.  It  piqued  her  vanity,  of  course, —  he 
walked  regardless ;  but  that  youthful  disregard  and  genu- 
ine ignorance  of  a  skilled  woman's  resources  merely  stim- 
ulated her,  where  Johnny's  overwhelming  demand  upon 
her  intelligence  repelled  and  stunned.  She  wished  to  see 
more  of  Quentin,  and,  secure  in  her  ancient  experience  of 
his  type, —  quite  apart  from  any  individuality  he  might 
chance  to  own, —  she  laid  her  plans  peacefully  and 
promptly  according. 

Later  Johnny,  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Auberon,  showed 
unwarrantable  curiosity. 

"What  did  he  come  for?"  he  said  at  lunch. 

"  He  came  to  inquire  about  a  girl,"  said  Ursula,  pre- 
pared in  advance  for  John's  usual  jokes.  He  was  inter- 
ested promptly. 

"  Never !  "  he  ejaculated.     "  Who  ?  " 

"  It's  rather  a  private  matter,"  said  Ursula.  "  However 
I  suppose " 

During  the  next  pause,  as  usual,  she  tried  not  to  speak, 
and  he  obliged  her. 

"  She's  that  girl  who  studied  voice-training  in  Geneva," 
she  said  unwillingly,  "  the  one  I  interviewed  the  other 


THE  ARTIST  143 

day.     I  think  I  mentioned  her  at  the  time,  but  you  have 
probably  forgotten." 

"  I  haven't,"  he  assured  her.  "  I  said  at  the  time  she'd 
have  done  better  to  come  to  me.  What  did  you  do  with 
her?" 

"  I  sent  her  to  old  Miss  Darcy,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Lord !  "  said  Johnny,  who  knew  the  lady.  "  The 
bearded  Darcy  ?  What  did  you  do  that  for  ?  " 

"  She  had  a  dying  mother  and  a  disreputable  father," 
said  Ursula  wearily,  "  and  wanted  to  make  money,  as 
usual.  I  put  her  in  the  way  of  doing  so  honestly,  that's 
all." 

"  Kind  of  you,"  said  Johnny,  "  but  that's  not  my  point. 
Why  turn  the  voice-trainer  on  to  Miss  Darcy  ?  To  train 
her  not  to  bark  at  strangers  ?  She  always  barks  at  me." 

"  She  looked  fairly  mild  and  manageable,"  said  Ursula, 
"  and  I  thought  they  might  get  on." 

"  Oh,  she  trains  tempers  as  well,  does  she  ?  What  are 
her  qualifications  ?  " 

Ursula  told  him,  and  he  listened  in  his  fashion,  without 
at  all  appearing  to  attend.  "  And  what  was  young  Au- 
beron  sent  for?  —  let's  hear,"  he  pursued  cheerfully. 

"  I  did  not  send  him,"  said  Ursula,  flushing.  "  I  ad- 
vised him  not  to  go,  but  he  was  rather  obstinate.  He  said 
he  wanted  to  see  her." 

"See?  —  what's  she  like?"  said  Johnny.  Before  his 
wife  could  answer  — "  Why  don't  you  have  the  voice- 
trainer  here,  and  get  her  to  train  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  You 
need  it." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Ursula.  "  I  have  voice  enough  for  my 
purposes." 

"  No,  you  haven't,"  said  Johnny.  "  You  can't  speak  off 
a  platform,  and  you're  always  trying  to.  You're  done  up 

after  a  big  dinner, —  cross  as  a  cat " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Sheer  exhaustion,"  he  insisted,  "  and  all  from  that. 
You  can't  conduct  family  prayers  —  not  that  I've  ever 


144  THE  ACCOLADE 

heard  you,  but  I'm  sure  of  it.  You  can't  say  a  word  down 
a  telephone,  as  I've  often  told  you, —  that  is,  I  say  a  word 
when  you  do.  Grandmamma  says,  as  soon  as  you  really 
try  to  speak  to  her,  she  stops  hearing  you.  That's  a  clear 
proof,  and  she's  a  good  judge.  You  can't  breathe,  for 
nuts " 

"  Perhaps  I  can't  eat,"  said  Ursula. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  say  so,"  he  retorted.  "  You  can't 
eat  a  dry  biscuit  without  choking, —  beastly  dangerous 
that.  Look  here !  "  He  got  up,  seemingly  in  earnest. 
"If  you  have  that  girl  here  to  teach  you  to  speak,  and  she 
plays  up  to  it,  I'll  give  her  a  guinea  a  lesson.  Twelve 
lessons, —  I'll  see  that  you  practise, —  tell  her  so." 

With  which  directions,  he  departed.  Ursula,  after 
short  and  rather  uneasy  pondering,  found  it  convenient  to 
believe  that  he  did  not  mean  it.  She  did  not  doubt  Miss 
Jacoby's  qualifications, —  especially  as  John  accepted 
them, —  but  she  did  not  want  to  take  lessons  from  a  girl  to 
whom  she  had  been  playing  patroness.  It  would  look 
absurd.  Besides,  John  might  be  a  judge  of  artists,  but  he 
had  no  knowledge  of  the  price  women's  work  commanded 
in  the  market, —  he  was  reckless  of  such  things,  utterly. 
He  flung  his  guineas  away  on  good  work  wherever  found, 
and  refused  to  look  twice  at  the  well-meaning  muddler 
who  is  the  worst  perplexity  of  the  benevolent  in  all  com- 
munities. That  was  partly  why,  even  in  her  public  work, 
Ursula  found  in  him  such  scant  sympathy. 


IV 

Quentin  Auberon  saw  Jill  Jacoby  with  no  difficulty  at 
the  house  of  the  bearded  Miss  Darcy,  who  barked. 

The  lady  thus  described  by  Johnny  was  an  impecunious 
and  quite  harmless  old  spinster,  with  an  irascible  manner 
and  voice  that  alarmed  the  unwary,  and  a  tiny  well- 
ordered  flat  in  a  West  London  square,  full  of  unique  and 
beautiful  things.  Her  father  had  been  a  collector  of  note. 


THE  ARTIST  145 

and  she  had,  in  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes,  preserved  some 
of  his  treasures  in  the  way  of  porcelain,  bibelots  and  furni- 
ture, being  herself  a  connoisseur. 

The  Ingestres  had  links  with  her  in  the  past,  and  she 
was  devoted  to  Johnny's  mother,  who,  since  Miss  Darcy 
was  practically  bedridden,  sent  her  son  from  time  to  time 
to  display  his  own  discoveries  in  the  shops  and  dust-holes 
of  the  various  capitals,  for  Johnny  was  not  without  a  taste 
that  way  himself.  Miss  Darcy,  who  had  wits  with  all  her 
oddities,  amused  Johnny :  so  he  seldom  acquired  any  ob- 
ject of  the  sort  without  bringing  it  to  her  to  peer  at 
through  her  strong  spectacles,  covet,  or  more  frequently 
condemn.  For  her  leading  theory  in  the  matter  was  that 
the  people  who  had  the  money  never  had  the  knowledge 
necessary  to  perfect  or  even  to  preserve  a  good  collection : 
and  vice  versa,  naturally. 

One  of  these  little  treasures,  an  invaluable  miniature 
of  a  French  ancestress,  belonging  to  the  Ingestre  Hall 
collection,  Miss  Darcy  had  kept  so  long,  on  one  excuse  or 
another,  that  it  was  Johnny's  pleasure  to  say  she  had  stolen 
it.  He  knew  it  was  perfectly  safe  in  her  skilled  keeping, 
safer  really  than  at  the  Hall,  and  so  did  his  mother;  so  the 
retention  of  the  miniature  of  the  Marechale  caused  them 
no  anxiety,  and  merely  remained  a  permanent  joke. 

Eccentric  Miss  Darcy  certainly  was,  and  far  from 
prepossessing:  but  those  who  got  past  her  ugly  exterior 
soon  found  that  her  snapping  was  largely  ill-health,  shat- 
tered nerves  from  a  life  of  misfortune,  and  the  intense 
shyness  of  a  grotesque-looking  and  sensitive  person,  often 
misunderstood,  and  exiled  from  her  peers.  She 
"  barked "  at  Quentin  on  entering,  and  listened  to  his 
explanations  grimly :  but  she  was  not  the  least  ill-disposed 
towards  him,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  mentioned  the  In- 
gestre name,  grew  friendly.  Miss  Darcy  liked  young 
men, —  Johnny  had  carefully  taught  her  to  do  so, —  and 
understood  their  ways  and  interests  more  readily  than 
most  spinsters.  She  was  also  a  sure  judge  of  breeding, 


146  THE  ACCOLADE 

as  her  own  family  was  extremely  good,  and  she  took  Mr. 
Auberon  at  his  surface  value  after  five  minutes'  chat, 
though  she  drew  the  dialogue  out  for  her  own  pleasure 
a  little  longer. 

Miss  Jacoby  herself, —  unmistakable  by  her  gait, —  had 
let  him  in,  and  carried  his  card  to  Miss  Darcy,  while  he 
waited.  Then  she  returned  and  admitted  him  straight  to 
the  spinster's  little  drawing-room.  Miss  Darcy  did  not 
dismiss  her,  and  she  remained  during  the  space  of  the  first 
dialogue  standing  near  the  door,  one  hand  resting  lightly 
against  the  wall,  not  at  all  as  though  for  support.  Quen- 
tin  was  conscious  of  her  eyes  upon  him  the  whole  time, 
vividly  conscious.  Whatever  the  rat's  daughter  was,  he 
decided  at  once,  she  was  not  a  nonentity. 

Indeed,  he  had  gathered  that  already  from  his  sister 
and  Ursula,  though  they  had  only  supplied  him  with  two 
facts  about  her,  and  those  facts  directly  opposed.  To 
Ursula  she  was  "  misleading,"  and,  on  sight,  untrust- 
worthy. Bridget  said  "  pukka "  and  pitied  her.  How 
was  a  man  to  reconcile  these  opposite  impressions? 

Both  informants  were  right,  in  a  measure.  Jill  was 
misleading,  since  it  was  her  proud  young  pleasure  to 
mislead.  She  was  a  mass  of  contradictions,  as  what  girl 
of  sixteen  —  especially  of  mixed  race  —  is  not?  Even  in 
her  outer  aspect,  impressions  clashed.  Her  contour  was 
childish,  yet  clearly  she  was  not  a  child, —  she  could  not 
be.  Jill,  the  "  rat's  daughter,"  was  of  medium  size,  plump 
and  neatly  made.  Her  lameness  was  an  offense  against 
nature's  graceful  intention,  consequently  she  disguised  it. 
Moving  softly  with  that  slight  pretty  lurch,  she  appeared 
simply  to  change  from  one  easy  pose  to  another,  the  while 
her  disdainful  little  contained  expression  challenged  the 
world  to  find  anything  wrong.  Her  smooth  dark  hair,  in 
the  quaint  style  of  Swiss  children,  was  parted  from  brow 
to  nape,  and  coiled  into  braided  medallions  above  her 
ears.  Her  forehead  was  low  and  broad,  her  face  short 
like  a  boy's.  Her  eyes  were  clear  brown  or  hazel,  several 


THE  ARTIST  147 

shades  lighter  than  her  hair:  wide-set  and  brilliant,  but 
with  an  expression  of  extreme  remoteness  all  the  same. 
Jill  seemed  always  to  be  watching  the  proceedings  of  a 
private  and  superior  world,  with  the  most  derogatory 
indifference  to  the  society  directly  beneath  her  ken.  Yet 
she  was,  as  Miss  Darcy  betrayed,  a  practical  young  person 
in  all  that  touched  the  household,  and  seemed  to  pride 
herself  on  a  knowledge  of  unlovely  detail.  Her  mouth 
was  beautiful  alike  in  shape  and  color,  rather  wide,  and 
in  smiling  she  crinkled  her  light-brown  eyes,  and  showed 
a  little  of  her  lower  teeth  through  scarcely  parted  lips. 
It  was  a  strange  smile,  not  really  mirthful,  yet  seductive. 
It  seemed  reticent,  waiting  on  events  to  amuse  her  more. 
Yet  —  one  more  contradiction  in  Jill  —  she  was  an  ad- 
mirable comedian,  and  made  others  laugh  without  diffi- 
culty. It  may  be  noted  that  real  comedians  can  do  this 
without  wasting  smiles  themselves.  All  Jill's  magic  was 
in  her  throat,  she  kept  it  there  quite  safely.  Her  lips, 
during  long  watchful  silences,  lay  on  guard,  as  though 
she  knew  that  by  stirring  them  she  could  stir  the  world 
as  well.  She  pitched  her  tone  low  in  common  life,  like 
the  higher  notes  of  a  man's  register  almost.  In  rapid 
speech,  or  to  a  large  company,  it  lifted  and  lightened  at 
once,  gathering  variety  and  shade,  yet  always  of  the  same 
rare  quality.  Quentin's  little  sister,  seeking  to  describe  it, 
called  it  "ice-smashing," — her  tone  had  certainly  some- 
thing of  the  echo,  chill  and  delicate,  of  shivered  ice. 
Looking  at  her  queer  eyes,  and  listening  to  that  unearthly 
tone,  it  would  not  be  the  first  instinct  to  trust  Jill,  cer- 
tainly. And  yet  Bridget  had  called  her  "  pukka,"  and 
that  was  not  a  judgment  Bridget's  brother  could  utterly 
disregard. 

As  a  fact,  a  life  of  continual  shock  and  disappointment 
had  driven  the  child  to  assume  a  mask.  Reserve  was  not 
in  her  nature  at  the  start.  But  from  five  years  old  on- 
ward, so  fast  as  she  grasped  any  advantage,  even  the  com- 
monest prize  of  childhood,  it  broke  in  her  hand.  A  clevei 


148  THE  ACCOLADE 

girl,  she  had  learnt  just  enough  to  be  ashamed  of  her 
ignorance.  She  was  fond  of  her  mother,  but  had  had  to 
spend  her  time  in  repairing  her  mother's  mistakes.  Every 
illusion  about  her  father  had  vanished  perforce  before  she 
reached  ten  years  old.  Her  own  fierce  ambition,  con- 
stantly fed  by  flattery  from  both  parents,  had  dropped 
between  the  two.  Every  step  she  had  tried  to  make  on 
her  own  account,  her  father  had  forestalled  and  frus- 
trated. Her  mother's  more  clinging  indulgence  dragged 
her  constantly  back  to  the  hearth,  where  she  could  at  least 
feel  she  was  wanted,  when  the  world  rebuffed.  She  could 
have  made  her  own  life,  had  she  been  left  alone ;  but  the 
too  visible  failure  of  others  dogged  her.  No  one  believed 
in  her  claims  with  those  appendages.  So  Jill  with  the 
obstinacy  of  childhood  gave  it  up,  and  found  pleasure  in 
the  other  extreme  of  abnegation  and  self-devoted  servi- 
tude. Until  —  inevitable  result  in  a  passionate  nature  — 
at  fifteen  she  had  become  self-centered  utterly,  a  little 
miser,  reveling  in  secret  over  the  treasure  she  never  in- 
tended to  show :  keeping  the  world  of  her  dreaming  and 
desire  apart,  locked  in  herself,  and  within  the  pages  of  one 
precious  book,  her  "  Journal," —  a  wonderful  and  terrible 
record  —  to  which  she  confided  her  sensuous,  stormy 
thoughts  when  they  would  no  longer  be  restricted ;  living 
on  herself  alone :  and  meeting  all  the  world  with  that  low 
contained  utterance  and  inscrutable  smile,  to  such  pur- 
pose that  only  the  straightest  and  kindest  and  simplest 
souls  of  her  own  sex  —  like  Bridget  —  understood  her. 

Jill  looked  now  at  the  young  man,  her  employer's  vis- 
itor, with  her  strange  eyes.  He  had  really  come  to  see 
her,  not  Miss  Darcy, —  he  said  so.  She  knew  something 
about  him, —  she  had  heard  his  name  before.  Both  his 
names,  what  was  more,  since  both  had  been  at  the  foot 
of  that  letter  —  most  severe  and  strange  to  Jill's  under- 
standing—  that  he  had  once  written  from  Oxford  to  her 
father.  It  happened  that  she  had  given  her  father  a  few 
hints  for  the  other  letter  that  provoked  it, —  she  was 


THE  ARTIST  149 

badly  in  need  of  money  for  the  house,  and  saw  no  harm. 
The  extreme  cleverness  of  the  begging-letter  to  Bridget 
had  been  largely  owing  to  Jill.  Why  not?  Miss  Au- 
beron  was  a  rich  and  comfortable  girl,  and  might  as  well 
serve  her.  The  reply  from  Quentin  was,  consequently, 
in  part  her  property,  and  she  took  it  away  and  studied  it  in 
concealment.  She  learnt  it  by  heart, —  instantly,  for  her 
memory  was  remarkable.  She  tried  once  or  twice  to 
imitate  the  little  English  hand.  Beyond  its  being  a  young 
man's  letter,  its  being  English  was  the  chief  charm.  An 
exile  almost  from  her  birth,  Jill  called  herself  English, 
and  had  learnt  her  mother's  language  with  care.  Also, 
since  her  mother  owned  a  few  classical  works,  all  her  most 
exciting  reading  had  been  in  that  tongue.  England  was 
the  land  of  high  romance.  She  knew  Shakespeare,  she 
knew  Dickens,  and  she  knew  Scott, —  few  English  girls 
of  fifteen  can  say  as  much.  There  was  a  Quentin  on 
Scott's  pages,  young  and  English  and  rather  cool,  unlike 
the  Frenchmen, —  much  like  this.  She  gazed  at  him.  He 
was  probably  a  hero,  or  at  least  he  might  easily  be  made 
so,  as  soon  as  Jill  and  the  journal  had  really  taken  him  in 
hand.  She  prepared  an  enthralling  commentary  for  the 
journal,  while  she  waited,  graceful  but  secretly  weary,  at 
Miss  Darcy's  door. 

Then  he  turned  to  her,  brusquely  rather,  and  handed 
her  some  flowers  he  had  been  holding  in  his  left  hand  all 
the  time:  country  flowers  from  his  sister's  cottage  in 
Gloucestershire,  where  he  had  been  spending  the  week- 
end. His  kind  little  sister,  knowing  the  bad  news  he 
carried,  had  picked  them  for  Jill,  on  an  impulse,  to  console 
her ;  but  he  did  not  say  so,  for  he  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary. To  his  surprise  the  haughty  Miss  Jacoby  winced 
at  his  movement,  and  blushed,  looking  towards  her  em- 
ployer doubtfully. 

"  Certainly,"  snapped  that  personage.  "  Go  and  put 
them  in  water.  I'll  send  Mr.  Auberon  to  see  you  in  the 
kitchen,  presently." 


150  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Quentin,  addressing  Jill  for  the  first 
time  directly,  "  I  had  better  give  you  this  before  you  go." 

He  extended  a  letter  in  a  soft  foreign  envelope,  with  the 
Geneva  stamp,  directed  in  his  aunt's  clear  hand.  Jill 
guessed  the  news  at  once,  as  was  evident:  the  color  sank 
from  her  face,  her  lips  pressed  together,  and  he  saw  the 
movement  of  swallowing  in  her  delicate  throat.  Then 
all  her  mask  of  indifference  returned,  and  with  a  little 
shrug,  she  slipped  it  from  his  hand.  Her  retreat  with  it 
and  the  flowers  was  so  swift  and  soft,  that  even  such  a 
keen  witness  a:s  Quentin  found  it  hard  to  believe  she  was 
lame  at  all. 

"  She's  too  pretty,"  Miss  Darcy  was  saying,  when  he 
recovered  from  the  contrary  shock  of  all  these  preliminary 
impressions.  "  It  won't  do.  I  can't  have  a  pretty  girl 
about  me.  Tell  Ursula  Ingestre,  if  you  come  from  her, 
it  won't  do  any  better  than  the  last." 

"  Pretty  ?  "  said  Quentin.  It  certainly  had  not  struck 
him  that  she  was. 

"  Too  much  for  the  place.  This  isn't  her  place  at  all. 
How  can  I  see  to  her,  tied  like  this  ?  I  can't, —  Ursula's 
absurd.  Cripple?  Nonsense,  I  have  crutches, —  that's 
her  art.  She's  as  pretty  as  she  wants  to  be,  the  child. 
Look  there,  I  tried  her  at  that  wheel  last  night."  She 
pointed  to  a  black  oak  spinning-wheel,  that  figured  among 
her  curiosities.  "  I  used  to  spin  myself, —  thought  I 
could  teach  her, —  well,  I  could  not.  I  looked  at  her  in- 
stead. She  charmed  me.  .  .  .  Well,  she'll  charm  the 
butcher  and  the  baker, —  I  have  to  send  her  out.  It'll 
all  be  over  in  no  time.  I  can't  have  her  here." 

She  was  really  intensely  nervous  and  concerned  about 
it,  Quentin  could  see;  her  rheumatic  hands  were  work- 
ing on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"  Can't  you  keep  her  a  little  ?  "  he  asked  rather  shyly. 
"  She's  got  no  friends.  My  aunt  is  in  Italy  for  the  pres- 
ent. She'll  see  to  her  when  she  comes  home." 

"  No  friends  ?     She's  too  many !     They'll  all  be  her 


THE  ARTIST  151 

friends,  and  more,  before  I  can  stop  'em.  She's  too  young 
to  manage  herself, —  I'm  too  old,"  said  Miss  Darcy,  "  to 
have  a  child.  What's  her  origin,  tell  me."  She  snapped 
at  nim.  Quentin  told  her. 

"  Gentry  ?  That  ?  Nonsense, —  what's  the  butcher-boy 
like  her  for?  She's  a  wild  thing,  I  tell  you,  wild  as  grass. 
I  may  talk  to  her,  she  looks  round  me  all  the  time.  Oh, 
I  ought  to  know  that  kind, —  she'll  never  settle.  She's  in 
love  already,  for  all  I  know." 

Quentin  colored  and  was  silent.  He  began  to  think 
her  a  little  mad, —  perhaps  a  form  of  monomania.  Yet 
he  could  not  but  feel  how  her  view  supported  Ursula 
rather  than  Bridget,  in  the  matter  of  Miss  Jill's  peculiari- 
ties. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  snapped  anxiously. 

"  She  can't  be  that, —  I  mean,  she's  not  old  enough. 
Really,"  said  Quentin,  "  you  mustn't  bother  so  much  about 
her." 

"  You  think  I'm  a  silly  old  woman,  don't  you  ?  —  silly 
and  weak.  But  you're  a  nice  young  man,  proper- 
brought-up.  You  know  nothing  of  it.  Johnny  would 
know,  you  ask  him, —  it's  another  kind.  She'll  be  in 
and  out  of  love  for  the  next  ten  years.  I  can't  under- 
take it,  I've  got  her  on  the  nerves.  You  must  tell  Ursula, 
promise  me." 

Quentin  promised. 

"  Saddle  me  with  a  limping  mystery  like  that ! "  ex- 
claimed Miss  Darcy:  but  his  promise  and  his  tranquil 
manner  seemed  to  soothe  her,  and  by  degrees,  she  settled 
down. 

"  She's  lost  her  mother,"  said  Quentin,  then.  "  That 
letter  I  gave  her  had  the  news." 

"Her  mother?"  Miss  Darcy  sat  rigid  a  minute. 
"  Oh,  poor  child, —  poor  child."  She  put  a  shaking  hand 
on  his  knee.  "  Yes, —  well,  I  must  keep  her  a  bit.  Don't 
tell  Ursula  at  present,  she'd  make  a  fuss.  .  .  .  Her 
mother, —  ah,  dear !  Poor  little  thing." 


152  THE  ACCOLADE 

After  a  minute,  still  shaking  with  the  new  emotion,  she 
signed  him  to  go. 

He  went,  secretly  setting  his  teeth. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  say  he  was  prejudiced  from  the 
outset,  though  certainly  his  informants  had  not  done  their 
best  to  reassure  him.  But  without  any  predisposition 
of  any  kind,  his  nature  must  have  dreaded  hers.  Jill 
might  call  herself  English,  but  she  had  the  soul  of  the  east 
of  Europe,  ardent,  even  rapacious  a  little.  Her  age, 
granted  that  parentage,  was  an  ungovernable  age,  and 
reckless  of  consequences.  Such  feeble  moral  teaching  as 
her  mother  had  been  able  to  offer  had  trickled  off  her 
almost  as  soon  as  spoken.  Those  ideas  were  pretty 
enough,  but  beside  the  point.  It  was  not  likely,  on  the 
face  of  it,  that  a  girl  so  disposed  would  submit  to  consti- 
tutional development  at  Mr.  Auberon's  hands,  or  even  to 
direction,  when  one  came  to  think.  Perhaps  Quentin 
guessed  it,  being  a  clever  boy,  and  that  was  why  he  was 
afraid  of  her. 

He  did  not  exhibit  apprehension,  naturally.  He  was 
kind,  simply  kind  and  careful,  as  man  must  be  to  an 
afflicted  little  girl.  He  thought  of  her  steadily  as  a  little 
girl,  determined  so  to  envisage  her.  He  offered  her  what 
consolation  he  could  think  of,  his  ready  countenance  in 
her  efforts  for  independence,  his  company  (more  im- 
portant to  Jill)  for  quite  a  time  in  her  kitchen  solitude, — 
and,  of  course,  his  advice.  Her  passion  of  grief  for  her 
mother  touched  him,  though  it  puzzled  him  too.  It  was 
illogical:  since  she  had  been  most  willing  to  leave  her 
mother,  he  gathered :  and  had  by  no  means  welcomed  the 
chance,  offered  her  by  Miss  Havant,  of  going  back. 

So  they  started  at  cross  purposes.  For  Jill  was  sure, 
even  while  feeling  quite  considerably,  that  her  sorrow  was 
moving  him  in  her  interest ;  and  Quentin,  though  re- 
proaching himself,  was  questioning  all  the  time  whether 
her  sorrow  were  real  at  all.  It  was  real,  most  of  it: 


THE  ARTIST  153 

Jill  was  a  good  daughter,  and  had  worked  for  her  mother 
all  her  life ;  though,  when  the  chance  of  escape  from  that 
caged  life  came,  her  ambition  proved  stronger  than  her 
love.  Once  flown,  she  could  not  wish  to  go  back,  her 
wings  had  long  been  beating  for  freedom.  Had  Quentin 
had  an  inkling  of  her  wretched  home  conditions,  the 
drudge's  life  she  had  led  in  her  feckless  parents'  service, 
he  would  have  understood  better  the  wild  romance  that 
liberty  and  London  was.  Even  at  this  moment  of  grief 
for  her  mother,  life  opened  a  little  more  before  her, — 
she  was  less  tied.  She  now  had  money  of  her  own, 
—  Miss  Darcy  paid  her,  which  she  had  not  the  least  ex- 
pected at  first.  She  had  only  to  save  for  herself,  and  the 
world  was  hers, —  only  of  course  she  disclosed  none  of 
these  leaping  ambitions:  she  simply  plotted  and  watched, 
and  made  use  of  all  that  came  to  further  them,  hasten 
the  great  day.  Miss  Darcy  herself  Jill  regarded  as  a 
tool ;  she  had  been  trying  little  experiments,  and  thought 
she  saw  how  an  influence  might  be  gained.  The  house 
was  nothing, —  Jill  agreed  with  Ursula ;  a  menage  of  one 
old  lady  —  she  who  had  had  in  the  best  days  ten  pen- 
sionnaires  to  cater  for !  —  could  be  looked  after  with  one 
hand.  Best  of  all,  here  was  the  man, —  the  man  she  had 
always  dreamed  of, —  come  to  help.  She  was  certain, 
convinced  he  must  help  her,  if  she  could  but  be  pathetic 
enough.  So  she  began  by  being  pathetic  as  a  new-made 
orphan,  with  the  best  excuse:  and  it  must  be  owned  she 
did  it  convincingly,  and  in  excellent  taste. 

She  sat  in  a  delightful  attitude  against  the  wooden 
kitchen  table,  with  the  nicely  cleaned  ranks  of  her  pots 
and  pans  as  a  background,  against  the  wall.  It  was  a 
pose  for  Cinderella  in  a  fairy-tale  scene,  both  little 
rounded  arms  leaning  on  the  board,  one  propping  her 
head,  her  elbow  in  the  other  palm.  She  had  the  little 
supple  long-fingered  hands  of  the  artist,  brownish-white, 
no  finger  of  them  ever  out  of  place.  With  her  round 
childish  brow  so  inclined,  the  charming  continuous  line 


154  THE  ACCOLADE 

of  head  and  neck  the  quaint  South  German  coiffure  per- 
mitted was  seen  to  the  best  advantage.  It  was  a  good 
head,  Quentin  noted,  and  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  brains 
within.  Had  there  only  been  brains  to  reckon  with ! 
And  yet  she  looked  very  young,  her  mouth's  line  very 
melancholy,  and  seeing  it  he  was  sorry  for  her. 

She  used  her  lowest,  most  seductive  nightingale  tone  to 
answer  his  questions,  and  she  answered  neatly  and  to  the 
point.  She  rarely  looked  towards  him,  and  when  she  did 
seemed  to  look  beyond.  The  little  witch  knew  the  value 
of  all  her  resources,  had  played  with  and  practised  them 
all:  practised  alone  chiefly,  it  is  true,  she  had  had  small 
chance  of  practising  on  others,  in  her  scheming  life  of 
poverty. 

"  My  father, —  I  must  let  him  know,"  she  murmured. 

"  I  will  let  him  know,"  said  Quentin. 

"  You  ?  "    A  wondering  glance. 

"  Of  course.  You  need  not  think  about  anything  of 
that  sort  just  now.  Has  he  let  you  alone  so  far  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jill  pensively.  "  I  said  he  was  not  to  come 
near  me." 

"  Good,"  thought  Quentin,  noting  the  change  of  her 
expressive  mouth.  "  She's  got  him  in  hand,  I  shouldn't 
wonder."  Aloud  he  said  — "  Will  he  go  back  to  Switzer- 
land, do  you  think,  when  he  hears  this  news  ?  " 

She  drew  a  breath.  "  He  might,"  she  said.  "  There 
will  be  something  for  him." 

"  Pickings,"  said  Quentin :  and  nothing  in  the  world 
could  have  kept  the  edge  of  scorn  from  his  tone.  As  Jill 
sent  him  a  sidelong  glance,  slightly  curious,  he  said, 
"  Would  you  be  glad  if  he  went  ?  "  She  shrugged  simply, 
lifting  her  fine  little  brows.  "  Do  you  care  for  him  ?  " 
he  pressed  her  keenly. 

"  No,"  said  Jill,  having  considered.  "  I  cannot :  I  have 
tried.  I  was  sorry  for  him  once,  but  even  that  now  is 
finished.  He  has  killed  my  mother, —  yes,  certainly  it  is 
he  that  has  killed  her  out  there."  She  reflected  another 


THE  ARTIST  155 

minute.  "  So,"  she  concluded  with  satisfaction,  clasping 
her  elbow  again,  "  he  is  not  my  father  any  more." 

Quentin  was  only  too  glad  to  believe  it.  He  had  little 
doubt,  of  course,  that  young  as  she  was  she  knew  the 
whole  disgraceful  history.  She  must  have  seen  too  much 
to  be  ignorant. 

"  If  he  wishes  to  be  my  father,"  Jill  resumed  unex- 
pectedly, "  I  shall  tell  him  I  have  enough."  She  shrugged. 
"  Qu'il  se  tire  d'affaire  —  sans  moi."  She  drew  pictures 
on  the  table  with  her  finger  for  a  moment,  and  he  saw 
the  tears  on  her  long  lashes,  not  yet  dried.  "  I  told  Miss 
Darcy  he  was  dead,"  she  added. 

"  That  was  a  lie,"  remarked  Quentin. 

"  Yes.  But  I  had  to  tell  her  something, —  Mrs. —  that 
lady  told  her  nothing  at  all.  After  all,  one  has  a  father." 
Her  tone  became  dreamy  again. 

"  Well,"  said  Quentin.  "  Mrs.  Ingestre  knows  best." 
Privately,  he  wondered  that  Ursula  should  have  kept 
Miss  Darcy  in  the  dark, —  consideration  for  Miss  Darcy's 
nerves,  probably,  or  the  idea  that  she  might  have  rejected 
the  girl  had  she  known :  or  perhaps  merely  Mrs.  Ingestre's 
own  beautiful  propriety,  which  had  been  slightly  too 
apparent  in  their  interview.  Personally,  Quentin  would 
have  told  the  employer,  if  only  to  get  the  thing  off  his 
chest.  However,  Mrs.  Ingestre  had  the  experience,  and 
he  had  to  leave  it  between  the  two  ladies,  old  friends  as 
they  were.  Quentin  supposed  they  were  friends  because 
Miss  Darcy  spoke  of  Mrs.  Ingestre's  husband  so  famili- 
arly: that  it  might  not  follow,  he  forgot. 

There  was  yet  another  point  he  had  to  make  sure  of 
before  he  left  her. 

"  Are  you  communicating  with  your  father?  "  he  asked, 
eyes  cast  down,  as  he  noted  Jacoby's  London  address. 

"Communicating?"     She  colored. 

"  Sending  him  money." 

"  Once,  I  did." 

"  You  must  not,"  he  said  crisply.     "  The  money  you 


156  THE  ACCOLADE 

earn  is  yours.  We  will  see  to  your  father's  needs,  if  he 
has  them.  .  .  .  Have  you  a  place  to  keep  it, —  your 
money,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  She  would  keep  it  for  me,"  said  Jill,  looking  aside  and 
shrinking  rather.  On  this  subject  he  alarmed  her;  she 
feared  the  interference  of  Man,  with  his  large  standards 
of  the  outer  world,  in  her  small  and  careful  contriving. 

"  Miss  Darcy  ?  Yes,  that  would  be  best.  She's  kind 
to  you?" 

"  Yes.  ...  I  wish  she  was  not  so  ugly,"  said  Jill. 

Quentin  laughed.  "  I  suppose  you  can't  offer  to  shave 
her  exactly,  can  you  ?  "  he  said,  rising,  and  pocketing  the 
note  he  had  made. 

Jill  shadowed  a  smile  too,  warily,  in  her  fashion.  She 
had  risen  when  he  did,  but,  hand  on  table,  did  not  stir 
from  where  she  stood.  It  reminded  him,  and  his  gravity 
returned  as  he  asked — 

"  You  don't  find  the  work  too  tiring, —  the  stairs  and  so 
on  ?  I  suppose  you  are  pretty  constantly  on  your  feet  ?  " 

"  All  the  time,"  said  Jill  disdainfully.  "  But  it  does  not 
tire  me, —  I  am  strong." 

"I  meant " 

"  My  infirmity."  She  smiled  her  strange  little  smile 
again.  "  It  is  not  beautiful,  but  it  is  a  small  thing. 
Other  people  regard  it,  but  I  do  not." 

Being  so  held  off,  Quentin  submitted.  "  Miss  Darcy  is 
worse  off  than  you  are,  certainly,"  he  said.  "  Well,  I 
say,  I've  got  to  go." 

"  You  are  going  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  want  to  lose  sight  of  you,  though." 
He  reflected  rapidly.  "  Look  here,  is  Miss  Darcy  going 
to  the  Ingestres'  on  Sunday,  by  any  chance  ?  " 

"  Yes, —  I  saw  the  card.  Oh,  will  you  be  there  ?  "  said 
Jill. 

"  I'm  asked,  yes.  Make  her  bring  you,  can't  you  ?  She 
would,  I  expect,  at  a  hint.  Then  I  might  get  a  chance  to 
introduce  you  to  Miss  Falkland.  I  should  like  to  do  that." 


THE  ARTIST  157 

"Miss  Falkland?" 

"  Yes.  Didn't  my  sister  mention  I  lived  with  them  ?  " 
He  explained,  lightly  and  curtly,  since  he  was  late. 
Having  explained,  he  went,  also  briskly  and  lightly,  thank- 
ful for  duty  accomplished.  To  his  own  critical  mind,  he 
had  left  nothing  undone,  and  said  nothing  superfluous,  in 
that  well-studied  interview.  But  the  princess  Cinderella, 
left  in  the  kitchen,  with  her  beautiful  mouth  set  sulkily, 
and  her  strange  light-brown  eyes  glittering  above,  could 
not  agree  with  him.  She  could  very  well  have  dispensed 
with  Miss  Falkland's  name. 


Ursula  had  decided,  for  all  the  bitterness  the  discussion 
of  John's  party  for  Helena  entailed  in  private,  to  treat  it 
gracefully,  in  front  of  her  own  friends,  as  a  joke.  So  she 
laughingly  disclaimed  all  responsibility  for  the  arrange- 
ments, in  advance. 

"  This  play's  going  to  be  as  I  like  it,"  explained  Johnny, 
also  in  advance,  adapting  his  wit  to  his  company. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  rag  it,"  said  Ursula,  in  front 
of  the  friends.  "  It  is  Shakespeare,  after  all,  and  a  very 
pretty  one.  And  it  will  be  extremely  hard  on  the  poor 
girl,  if  you  do." 

Johnny  merely  lifted  his  brows.  That  it  is  simply 
impossible  to  rag  Shakespeare,  however  one  may  talk 
about  him  up  to  the  very  minute  of  performance,  she  did 
not  seem  to  know.  But  then  she  knew  nothing.  Nor  did 
her  friends.  Johnny  left  it. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  in  your  room,  Mr.  Ingestre,"  said 
the  friends,  with  the  amusement  that  subject  always 
seemed  to  evoke. 

Johnny  could  never  think  why.  His  music-room  at  the 
back  of  the  house  was  a  particularly  jolly  place,  a  billiard- 
room  in  origin,  furnished  entirely  in  his  own  taste,  and  to 
suit  his  private  purposes.  It  boasted  a  large  piano,  and  a 


158  THE  ACCOLADE 

small  stage.  The  chairs  were  better  than  any  chairs 
Ursula  could  ever  have  invented,  still  less  unearthed  in 
London.  There  were  a  great  many  things  of  interest,  of 
a  mixed  kind,  valuable  and  otherwise,  with  dark  histories 
attached  to  them  which  only  Johnny  could  tell.  Most  of 
the  music-room's  contents  were  mellow  with  time,  and 
they  would  all  have  been  hoary  with  dust  likewise,  only 
Ursula  and  her  housemaids  made  periodic  incursions  and 
cleaned  in  the  corners  while  Johnny  was  out.  They  sel- 
dom succeeded  completely  before  he  sent  them  packing, 
that  was  his  consolation ;  nor  could  air  and  water  ever 
remove  the  strong,  supporting  savor  of  tobacco  that  clung 
to  everything,  and  helped  his  Sunday  visitors  to  feel  at 
home.  Why  women  laughed  at  this  sanctuary  of  art  and 
friendship,  remained  a  mystery :  but  even  the  most  well- 
trained  women,  such  as  Violet,  did. 

Since  Johnny  always  worked  in  his  room,  at  which- 
ever of  his  arts  happened  to  be  uppermost,  Helena  learnt 
to  know  it  too.  She  thought  it  funny,  but  like  him, 
privately.  She  was  infinitely  more  at  ease  there  than  in 
Ursula's  department,  where  she  was  simply  guest,  not 
pupil.  In  Johnny's  haunts  she  became  pupil  instantly,  for 
some  reason, —  how  it  happened  she  could  not  say.  Nor 
did  he  show  himself  an  easy  master ;  she  had  never  worked 
so  hard  in  her  life,  as  he  made  her  work,  those  weeks 
before  performance;  she  learned  what  artistic  working 
meant.  She  went  and  came,  graceful  and  serene,  cross- 
ing from  one  department  of  that  strange  house  to  the 
other,  as  they  wished  her :  independent,  since  her  mother 
trusted  her  readily  to  Ursula's  charge,  her  manners  per- 
fect to  both  host  and  hostess,  however  they  chose  to  treat 
her.  Since  she  was  gentle,  Ursula  patronized  her  easily ; 
since  she  was  adroit  under  her  modest  guise,  she  very 
nearly  succeeded  in  constituting  the  link  Ursula  needed 
so  sorely  with  her  husband.  She  was  able  at  least  to 
keep  their  tempers  for  them ;  and  both  were  secretly  re- 
lieved if  they  could  detain  her,  after  rehearsal,  for  a  meal. 


THE  ARTIST  159 

In  his  professional  capacity,  John  had  been  most  con- 
siderate of  Helena's  feelings,  and  contained  his  opinions 
to  her  face  with  unusual  success.  But  he  told  Ursula 
cheerfully,  after  the  first  trial,  that  she  recited  prettily, 
but  acted  like  a  mincing  missy ;  and  after  the  second,  that 
she  was  rather  worse,  because  she  was  trying  to  be  hearty. 
A  hearty  Rosalind,  said  Johnny,  was  obviously  beastly, 
and  she  had  far  better  go  back  to  the  mincing  one,  which 
only  made  the  hearer  smile,  not  swear. 

So  uncompromising  had  been  his  private  views,  clearly 
expressed  to  Ursula,  and  kindly  concealed  by  her  from 
Helena's  family,  that  she  was  rather  surprised  when,  on 
the  day  of  performance,  Miss  Falkland  appeared  beauti- 
fully dressed  in  character,  composed  as  usual,  with  no 
uncomfortable  nerves  apparent  to  distract  her  patrons 
beforehand ;  and  acted  the  "  pretty  play  "  "  quite  charm- 
ingly " :  at  least,  that  was  the  opinion  of  Ursula's  contin- 
gent at  the  end  of  the  pretty  play,  with  one  accord. 

"  What  did  you  tell  me  she  wasn't  going  to  dress  for?  " 
said  Ursula  to  her  husband,  rather  annoyed,  when  the 
earliest  guests  were  arriving,  and  Miss  Falkland,  a  cloak 
over  her  court-robes,  and  its  hood  over  her  glorious  hair, 
had  just  appeared. 

"  I  told  her  she  could,  last  night,"  said  Johnny  care- 
lessly, "  since  it  seemed  she  had  the  clothes.  I  thought  it 
might  be  the  best  chance." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Ursula.  "  I  said  so,  from  the 
first."  She  looked  markedly  at  her  husband's  suit  of  un- 
seemly tweed :  for  he  had  spent  the  morning  on  the  links 
as  usual,  and  had  not  troubled  to  change. 

"  The  only  hope  now  is  to  knock  'em  in  the  eye,"  he 
pursued  calmly.  "  They  may  see  her  way  to  a  dolly  part 
in  a  dolly  piece  if  she  looks  nice  enough, —  Lord  knows. 
Luckily  she  does  know  how  to  dress, —  I'd  begun  to  doubt 
even  that." 

"  She's  quite  lovely,"  said  Ursula,  who  grew  warmer 
towards  Helena  in  proportion  as  Johnny  waxed  critical. 


160  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Isn't  she,  Mr.  Auberon?  That  satin  is  just  the  perfect 
shade." 

Johnny  reviewed  Rosalind's  clothes  a  moment  in  his 
"  dissecting  "  manner.  Critical  was  the  mildest  word  for 
that  manner  of  his. 

"  I  told  her  to  keep  her  hair,  and  send  the  text  to 
blazes,"  he  remarked,  to  Miss  Darcy  who  sat  near  him. 
"  I  told  her  the  author  would  agree  if  he  were  here. 
'  Your  chestnut's  ever  the  only  color ' —  which  re- 
minds me  — "  he  swung  suddenly  about.  "  Where's 
Celia?" 

"  Who  was  to  do  Celia  ?  "  said  Miss  Darcy,  who  seemed 
most  contented  at  his  side.  She  became  extremely  natural 
and  composed  in  Johnny's  restless  company.  But  then 
she  had  a  passionate  prejudice  in  favor  of  all  Ingestres, 
and  had  known  Johnny  himself  literally  from  the  cradle, 
since  she  had  been  his  mother's  confidante  and  companion 
at  that  time.  She  knew  the  atmosphere  of  the  music- 
room  on  Sunday  extremely  well,  having  a  permanent  in- 
vitation to  anything  that  happened  there :  and  was  aware 
that  if  one  exerted  patience  through  the  somewhat  heter- 
ogeneous preliminaries,  one  was  generally  rewarded  by 
something  good  in  the  end. 

"  Mitchell  said  he'd  bring  one  of  his  kids  along  to  do  it 
for  me,"  confided  Johnny,  searching  the  rapidly  filling 
room.  "  But  I  see  no  kid,  do  you  ?  Of  course  Mitchell 
may  call  her  a  kid,  and  she  be  twenty-five.  He's  been 
married  several  times.  Monty !  " 

He  vociferated  suddenly,  across  the  heads  of  several  of 
Ursula's  nice  acquaintance,  who  tried  not  to  look  sur- 
prised. Quite  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  room,  a  keen- 
looking  tall  man,  rather  high-colored,  and  conspicuously 
well-dressed,  turned  about. 

"  Where's  that  kid  you  promised,  you  thief  ? "  called 
Johnny. 

"  Apologize,  Ingestre,"  said  the  man,  in  the  unmistak- 
able clear-consonanted  actor's  tone.  "  The  child's  had  a 


THE  ARTIST  161 

bit  of  a  cold,  and  Fanny  won't  allow  her  to  speak  through 
it." 

"  What  rot,"  said  Johnny,  on  the  same  pleasant  carrying 
note.  "  Fanny,  are  you  getting  fussy  in  your  old  age  ?  " 

"  She's  at  the  ticklish  point,"  Mr.  Mitchell  continued,  as 
the  lady  addressed,  who  was  talking  low  and  rapidly  to 
her  neighbor,  did  not  seem  to  hear.  "  We'd  sooner  not 
take  risks." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  of  me,"  complained  Johnny. 
"  Celia's  not  so  easy  done  without.  Serve  Fanny  right  if 
you  made  her  take  it  —  tell  her  so." 

"  Johnny's  inviting  you  to  take  Celia,"  said  Mr.  Mitchell 
to  his  inattentive  lady.  "  You  might  acknowledge  the 
compliment." 

"  I  will,  if  you  like,  Johnny,"  said  Mrs.  Mitchell,  turn- 
ing a  beautiful  worn  face  and  a  tired  smile.  "  Anything 
to  oblige  a  friend." 

"  Rot,  I  was  joking,"  said  John  in  some  haste.  Cross- 
ing to  the  door,  he  laid  a  hand  on  the  actress's  shoulder, 
as  he  passed  her.  "  If  you'd  go  through  one  of  the  third- 
act  dialogues  with  me,  at  the  end,  to  show  her  — "  he  men- 
tioned quietly. 

"  That  I  will,"  said  Fanny,  also  quietly,  only  unfor- 
tunately everybody  heard.  "  It's  some  time  since  I  made 
love  to  you,  my  dear,  when  I  come  to  think."  She  put 
her  gloved  hand  over  his  fingers  with  frank  affection, 
before  he  moved  away. 

This,  and  more,  was  the  kind  of  thing  Ursula  was 
expected  to  bear,  that  day.  They  all  seemed  to  be  on  the 
most  confidential  terms  with  her  husband,  and  with  one 
another;  and  their  confidences,  low  or  loud,  were  invari- 
ably audible.  Yet  Ursula  bore  it  marvelously,  with  the 
right  smiles  and  movements  for  Johnny's  friends,  and  the 
face  of  martyrdom  turned  to  her  own.  It  was  a  beautiful 
exhibition,  so  all  the  latter  agreed,  of  wifely  tolerance. 

"  Good,  there's  my  father,"  said  Johnny,  after  another 
easy  interval,  during  which  everybody  enjoyed  themselves 


162  THE  ACCOLADE 

immensely,  and  nothing  occurred.  "  He  said  he'd  read 
the  Dukes." 

"  Both  the  Dukes  ?  "  asked  somebody. 

"  Any  quantity  of  Dukes,  my  father  says  he's  up  to. 
Now  we're  pretty  straight,  I  think."  The  stage-manager, 
sitting  on  a  table  amid  his  friends,  glanced  about  him. 

"  Who's  Celia,  finally  ?  "  asked  the  last  speaker. 

"  I  am,  Edward,"  said  Johnny.  "  I'm  three  males  and 
a  female,  now,  with  Jacques.  I'm  rather  out  of  practice 
in  ventriloquism, —  hope  I  keep  them  clear." 

"  Jacques  ?  "  queried  Edward.  "  But  you're  Orlando, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Rather !  "  said  Johnny. 

"  I  say,  Ingestre,"  said  Edward,  "  do  you  propose  to 
conduct  a  dialogue  with  yourself  ?  " 

"  Rather,"  said  Johnny,  unperturbed.  "  It's  a  thing  I'm 
specially  good  at  doing  —  in  the  evenings  —  ask  my  wife." 

"  John,"  said  Ursula's  cool  tone  across  his  shoulder,  at 
this  point.  "  Here's  Miss  Jacoby  will  take  Celia,  if  you 
like." 

"  Who  the  deuce  is  Miss  Jacoby  ?  "  said  Johnny  under 
his  breath.  "  And  what's  she  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  She  is  close  to  you,"  said  Ursula  quietly :  and  scored 
for  once,  for  he  recoiled.  Then  he  rose. 

"  It  is  as  you  wish,"  said  Jill,  with  great  indifference. 
She  treated  Mr.  Ingestre  the  aristocrat  to  rather  more 
haughtiness  than  she  had  treated  Quentin  at  first  meeting 
—  hardly  worth  while  to  look  at  him,  one  would  have 
said.  She  was  leaning,  inconspicuously  as  usual,  against 
the  table ;  for,  as  Miss  Darcy's  maid,  she  could  not  venture 
to  sit  down. 

"  Awfully  good  of  you,  Miss  Jacoby,"  said  Johnny,  tak- 
ing her  in  with  curious  eyes.  "  It  would  relieve  me  of 
just  a  quarter  of  my  responsibilities  if  you  would  read 
the  part." 

"  I  think  I  know  it,"  said  Jill.  "  Unless  I  have  forgot- 
ten," 


THE  ARTIST  163 

"  Studied  it  ?  "  said  Johnny,  with  another  sweeping 
glance.  He  had  recognized  Ursula's  "  voice-trainer " 
now,  for  Miss  Darcy  had  referred  to  her  also. 

"  No,  but  I  acted  in  this  piece  once,  and  — "  she  made 
a  little  gesture. 

"  Picked  it  up."  The  part  she  must  have  taken  was 
clear  to  his  consciousness  as  he  spoke,  for  it  is  only  Rosa- 
lind, in  the  "  piece,"  who  is  invariably  present  when  Celia 
speaks.  But  he  hardly  thought  it  out  then,  being  simply 
relieved  to  see  his  company  complete.  Putting  a  hand  on 
the  stage,  he  vaulted  suddenly  upon  it,  and  began  to  kick 
the  furniture  into  position,  in  the  same  competent  and 
casual  manner  as  that  in  which  he  had  disposed  his  cast. 

"  We  might  start  at  the  beginning  then,"  he  remarked 
to  the  audience  in  general, —  just  as  if  it  would  have 
struck  a  stage-manager  to  begin  anywhere  else.  "  We 
can  have  the  girl's  scene,  Miss  Falkland,  after  all, —  and 
I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  Edward,  of  knocking  you  down. 
I  thought  I  should  be  engaged  as  a  lady  just  then,  but  now 
I'm  quite  at  your  service,  only  just  look  out  for  the  can- 
dles." 

"  Start  with  the  first  scene,  Ingestre,"  called  Mr. 
Mitchell, —  as  though  this,  again,  were  quite  a  fresh  idea : 
a  kind  of  original  inspiration,  on  the  part  of  a  commen- 
tator of  genius. 

"  Do,  Johnny,"  said  Mitchell's  wife  in  the  same  tone. 
"  It's  all  such  pretty  talking." 

"  Won't  you  ?  "  Helena  asked  shyly,  looking  up  at  him 
as  he  stood  on  the  stage. 

"  Not  me,"  he  answered  with  decision.  "  Can't  be 
bothered  to  tell  you  fairy-stories,  Fanny.  You  can  get  up 
and  tell  those  ladies  the  first  chapter,  if  you  like :  sort  of 
way  the  feuilletons  do." 

Fanny  laughed.  "  Do  it  yourself,"  she  returned, 
"  since  you're  up.  We'd  all  like  to  hear  you.  I'm  sure 
I've  forgotten  the  way  the  plot  goes, —  so's  Mitchell,  prob- 
ably." 


164  THE  ACCOLADE 

John  was  silent  for  a  space,  looking  round  him.  The 
sight  of  so  many  mixed  guests  seemed  to  move  him  pleas- 
antly. He  was  bound,  his  expression  said,  to  have  some 
of  them  on,  if  he  tried.  His  father,  for  instance, — 

"  Well,  you  can  just  represent  to  yourselves,"  he  be- 
gan of  a  sudden  in  a  new  tone,  low  and  clear,  which 
produced  silence  immediately,  "  that  this,  having  been  an 
orchard  where  my  brother  brought  me  up,  and  where  I 
grew  a  little  bigger  than  he  expected  —  as  you  see  —  and 
where  I  cheeked  him  at  intervals,  with  the  best  of  provo- 
cation —  as  I  haven't  time  to  show  you  —  has  now  got 
to  be  turned  into  a  Duke's  garden." 

"  Bless  him,  it  does  me  good  to  hear  his  pretty  voice 
again,"  murmured  Fanny,  settling  back  in  her  chair  with 
the  air  of  a  tired  queen. 

"  Reason  why,"  pursued  Johnny,  "  I've  challenged  the 
Duke's  wrestler,  who  always  does  it  among  the  flower- 
beds —  thafs  a  flower-bed  —  and  whose  habit  it  is  to  kill 
the  men  he  throws.  Nowadays  that  would  be  bad  form, 
but  in  the  Ducal  period  it  was  different." 

"  Too  absurd,  isn't  he  ?  "  said  Ursula  to  her  father-in- 
law,  keeping  a  careful  watch  upon  the  door. 

"  I'd  much  sooner  have  had  swords,"  said  Johnny  with 
sudden  excitement,  "  only  owing  to  my  brother's  beastly 
education  —  er  —  obscuring  and  hiding  from  me  all  gen- 
tlemanlike qualities  —  I  never  learnt  to  hold  one." 

Such  of  his  friends  as  knew  his  fighting  qualities  ap- 
preciated this,  and  he  gave  them  time.  He  thrust  his 
hands  in  his  jacket  pockets,  and  turned  slightly  in  his 
father's  direction. 

"  I  come  of  a  decent  family,  and  bear  an  honorable 
name " 

"  Hear,  hear,"  said  a  shabby  actor  gravely :  Mr.  Inges- 
tre  the  elder  stirred  in  his  seat. 

"  My  gentility  has  been  mined,  however " 

"  Has  been  what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ingestre. 

"  Mined,  father:  undermined,  you  know.     My  gentility 


THE  ARTIST  165 

has  been  undermined  —  er  —  in  youth,  by  associating  with 
my  inferiors."  Johnny's  expressive  eye  fell  on  Fanny, 
who  was  smiling.  "  The  result  is,  I  can  only  wrestle, 
and  write  versjes,  and  —  er  —  kill  lions,  and  so  on :  things 
like  that.  I'm  a  credit,  in  short,  to  my  shocking  educa- 
tion, and  quite  a  nice  young  feller  —  oh,  yes,  I  am,  Fanny, 
you  wait  and  see.  Now,  when  you're  all  ready — " 
Johnny  reviewed  his  company  slowly,  one  by  one  — "  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  we  started.  It's  getting  time." 
"  He  speaks  well,"  said  Jill  to  Helena.  "  Who  is  he  ?  " 
"  The  master  of  this  house,"  said  Helena  gently,  "  and 
a  quite  wonderful  actor." 

"  I  can  see  he  acts,"  said  Jill.  "  He  has  good  hands." 
Helena  looked  at  her:  it  was  odd  of  the  queer-looking 
girl  to  pick  that  out.  Helena  thought  Johnny's  brown 
hands  beautiful  too ;  she  had  been  watching  them  while 
he  fingered  the  furniture  carelessly  in  throwing  it  about. 
She  thrilled  when,  in  the  course  of  rehearsal,  he  laid  one 
of  them  upon  her,  in  pushing  her  to  her  place.  Her  eyes 
followed  him,  clung  to  him,  through  all  his  careless 
changes.  He  was  that  young  hero  he  described  to  her, 
"  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved."  She  felt  the  truth 
of  it,  looking  round  her  at  her  strange  society.  "  En- 
chantingly,"—  oh,  insidious  phrase'  for  a  girl's  secret 
imagination  to  toy  with !  Shakespeare,  who  knew  girls, 
would  never  have  used  it  in  the  connection  had  he  known. 
Obviously,  Helena  was  in  danger.  She  could  barely 
escape.  He  had  all  the  attractions  possible  to  a  girl  of 
her  age,  including  the  unknown,  the  inexplicable.  His 
two  personalities,  his  two  manners  towards  her,  puzzled 
and  absorbed  her.  Tcte-a-tcte  in  rehearsal  he  had 
dragooned  her  lately,  managed  her,  rated  her  even,  shown 
himself  both  sharp  and  kind.  Tcte-a-tcte  in  society  he 
played  with  her  as  a  pretty  child.  The  two  manners  did 
not  mix,  he  kept  them  separate,  and  she  barely  knew  by 
his  appearance  which  was  likely  to  be  uppermost  at  any 
moment.  In  the  one  mood  she  was  alert  to  please  him, 


i66  THE  ACCOLADE 

in  the  other  she  feared  to  please  too  much.  Suspecting 
his  home  circumstances  shyly,  though  both  Ursula  and 
Violet  had  concealed  them  well,  she  pitied  him  in  secret. 
Every  time  he  flashed  into  art,  she  admired  him  more 
keenly.  The  state  of  things  was,  to  say  the  least,  alarm- 
ing, and  Mrs.  Falkland  had  every  reason  to  be  solicitous,  ^ 
had  she  known. 

Helena  would  have  given  all  she  had,  far  more  than  he 
dreamed,  to  please  him  on  the  present  occasion.  She  had 
been  innocently  hoping,  if  only  by  her  sweet  appearance, 
and  careful  following  of  his  instruction,  to  win  a  word  of 
praise.  But  fate  was  not  kind.  It  was  not  only  her  gen- 
uine shy  feeling  hampered  her, —  she  was  almost  instantly 
obscured  by  contrast  too.  Little  had  she  guessed  what 
that  queer  little  Miss  Jacoby,  whom  Mr.  Auberon  had 
introduced,  was  purposing  for  her  discomfiture;  how, 
while  she  sat  demure  at  Miss  Falkland's  side,  she  was  even 
panting  for  the  chance!  No  one  could  have  guessed  it, 
with  Jill's  wary  demeanor,  till  the  moment  came. 
Throughout  the  opening  scene,  from  the  moment  when 
Helena,  followed  by  Jill  summarily  dressed  and  limping 
slightly,  swam  upon  the  stage,  the  whole  attention  of  the 
uncritical  was  fixed  on  radiant  Rosalind,  but  Celia  had  the 
expert's  ear. 

"  Lord,  what's  this  ? "  said  John's  movement  and 
Mitchell's,  simultaneously.  Mitchell's  wife,  from  first  to 
last,  never  moved  her  eyes  from  the  girl,  though  her  face 
did  not  change  its  dreamy  weary  expression.  She  was 
like  a  woman,  tired  out,  who  caught,  in  so  listening  and 
watching,  some  faint  memory. 

"  No,"  cried  the  little  Celia,  "  when  Nature  hath  made  a 
fair  creature,  may  she  not  by  fortune  fall  into  the  fire  ? " 

She  could  barely  be  said  to  have  a  foreign  accent,  yet 
her  accent  was  noticeable,  and  she  trilled  the  letter  "  r  " 
just  perceptibly,  as  the  Parisian  actress  does.  "  A  fair 
cr-reature,"  she  said.  It  came  again,  several  times  over, 
when  she  accosted  Johnny,  a  speech  losing  nothing  in 


THE  ARTIST  167 

stately  elegance  of  diction  by  those  repeated  little  trills. 

"  Young  gentleman,"  said  Jill,  looking  up  at  him  —  far 
up  —  with  perfect  dignity,  "  your  spirits  are  too  bold  for 
your  years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this  man's 
strength.  .  .  .  We  pray  you  to  embrace  your  safety,  and 
give  over  this  attempt." 

Johnny  almost  smiled  at  the  time,  and  almost  laughed 
later,  more  than  once,  in  pure  joy  at  the  revelation  of  a 
personality,  not  Jill's  but  Celia's.  He  had  really  forgotten 
it  was  such  a  charming  part.  Yet,  as  the  action  pro- 
ceeded, his  eyes,  curious  and  dissecting,  pierced  Celia's 
interpreter  several  times.  Something  was  wrong.  She 
was  doing  it,  in  a  way,  too  well,  too  fiercely  well.  Also 
she  was  competing,  it  was  no  longer  a  second  part  as  she 
rendered  it.  That  suggested  not  only  unbalanced  judg- 
ment, but  he  feared,  some  measure  of  ill-will.  She  meant 
to  override  Miss  Falkland,  she  had  that  in  view.  It  might 
be  merely  youth,  but  he  thought  it  was  other  things,  pas- 
sions moving,  a  character  out  of  hand.  It  just  reached, 
and  just  disturbed  him.  He  glanced  at  Fanny  once,  saw 
her  melancholy  and  intent,  and  wondered  if  she  thought  as 
he  did.  She  knew  something  of  this  kind  of  girl.  Fanny, 
in  the  course  of  her  own  tempestuous  and  exhausting  life, 
had  saved  many  such  a  girl  from  wreckage,  that  he  knew. 

Meantime,  and  even  in  the  act  of  so  pondering,  divining 
and  judging,  Mr.  John  Ingestre  junior  enjoyed  himself 
immensely.  It  was  long  since  he  had  acted,  really  acted, 
and  with  this  new  girl  alongside  he  had  naturally  to  "  buck 
up."  The  process  he  would  so  have  described  was  a  little 
paralyzing  to  the  world  at  large.  He  knew  perfectly  well 
that  the  part  of  Orlando  suited  him,  that  he  was  impress- 
ing his  father,  amusing  the  Mitchells,  and  slightly  scandal- 
izing his  wife  and  her  nice  friends.  Being  so  well  above 
the  level  of  his  company,  he  had  some  temptation  to 
overdo  it  farcically,  but,  perhaps  with  Jill's  warning  be- 
fore him,  he  did  not.  He  was  only,  as  he  had  promised 
them,  a  "  nice  young  feller,"  one  of  the  nicest  Shake- 


168  THE  ACCOLADE 

speare,  that  lover  of  boys,  ever  presented  to  a  happy  world. 
It  put  the  whole  of  his  mixed  audience  into  a  good  temper 
merely  to  look  at  him.  The  grotesque  Miss  Darcy  and  the 
beautiful  Fanny  agreed  about  him  with  an  indulgent  smile. 
Even  his  own  wife  unbent,  though  Ursula  still  regretted 
that  he  was  not  dressed.  It  must  seem  so  odd,  thought 
Ursula,  for  those  Mitchell  people  and  the  real  actors,  to 
see  John  in  tweed  upon  a  stage.  Far  from  "  embracing 
his  safety,"  as  Miss  Jacoby  urged  him,  Johnny  sent  Ed- 
ward flying,  in  the  wrestling-bout,  with  such  ultra-youth- 
ful vivacity,  that  Edward  rolled  right  off  the  small  stage, 
and  had  to  be  retrieved  by  another  actor  in  the  stalls.  Im- 
mediately after  which,  Johnny  turned  shy,  and  made  the 
first  parting  with  his  lady,  by  his  right  use  of  gesture  and 
pause,  no  droop  of  eye-lash  scamped,  the  thing  of  beauty 
it  should  be,  a  love-scene  from  a  younger  world. 

"  Deuced  pretty,  that  is,"  remarked  Mr.  Ingestre  as  the 
scene  closed,  scratching  his  jaw  meditatively,  as  he  glanced 
in  Ursula's  direction.  He  was  speculating  whether 
Johnny  was  in  reality  off  his  head  about  that  red-haired 
lass  on  the  stage:  because,  with  Johnny's  wife  sitting  in 
the  post  of  honor  at  his  side,  it  was  really  rather  awkward 
not  to  be  sure. 

Lastly,  in  the  short  dialogue  with  himself,  as  Jacques, 
Johnny  scored  such  a  triumph  of  neat  elocution  and 
natural  humor  combined,  that  the  room,  regardless  of 
warnings  to  the  contrary,  broke  into  applause.  At  the 
point  where  he  observed  abruptly  to  his  other  self  — "  I 
am  weary  of  you," — the  actor-manager  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed,  all  alone;  and  Mrs.  Mitchell  informed 
her  host  point-blank  at  the  close  of  the  scene  that  he  was 
far  too  good  for  the  classic  drama,  and  had  better  try  his 
fortune  at  the  "  halls." 

So  much  for  Johnny.  There  followed  on  this,  barely 
separated,  Helena's  big  scenes,  which  bored  the  profes- 
sionals mightily,  as  anyone  could  have  seen  by  their  ex- 
pressions. The  fact  that  the  rest  of  the  room  (who  had 


THE  ARTIST  169 

rather  forgotten  Shakespeare)  were  charmed,  helped  Miss 
Falkland's  cause  but  little.  Johnny  did  what  he  could  to 
spur  and  prompt  her :  but  with  the  dull  faces  beneath  her, 
she  was  growing  nervous  by  rapid  degrees,  and  did  not 
even  do  herself  and  his  careful  training  justice.  She  was 
frightened,  and  so  heavy,  and  it  struck  John  once  or  twice 
that  she  was  not  really  textually  expert,  barely  knew  the 
fuller  sense  or  finer  wit  of  what  she  was  saying.  She  was 
ignorant,  an  ignorant  child ;  she  was  failing,  and  she  knew 
it ;  more,  and  more  wonderful,  she  was  afraid  of  him. 

"  I  can't,"  she  said  once,  beneath  her  breath :  and  he 
caught  her  glance  upon  him,  liquid  and  frightened,  as 
though  she  feared  his  blame. 

His  blame!  Schoolmaster,  was  he?  Johnny  could 
have  laughed.  He  could  never  have  said  at  what  point  of 
that  awakening  afternoon  his  heart  melted  to  her, —  while 
he  yet  criticised  it  happened, —  just  there,  perhaps,  when 
he  divined  in  her  frightened  glance  the  breaking  up  of  her 
ambitions,  her  dependence  on  his  approval,  her  childish 
fear  of  having  forfeited  that,  with  all  the  rest.  Exactly 
in  proportion  as  her  failure  became  clear,  his  feeling  to 
her  grew  clearer  also.  No  success  could  possibly  have  so 
endeared  her  to  him,  being  what  he  was.  Already  on  the 
stage,  before  the  play  finished,  he  was  shielding,  support- 
ing her  tacitly,  with  all  the  art  he  possessed ;  and  they  had 
not  left  the  stage  for  five  minutes,  before  he  was  aware 
that  even  more  accomplished  help  was  needed. 

The  Mitchells, —  the  man  at  least, —  were  rude  to  Rosa- 
lind as  only  your  artist  can  be  rude.  He  gave  her  the 
formula  that  means  nothing,  or  less  than  nothing,  on  her 
acting,  while  his  eyes  took  stock  of  her  physical  claims, 
too  visibly.  Mrs.  Mitchell  was  kinder,  so  far  as  a  per- 
fectly implacable  judge  can  seem  kind.  The  pair  talked 
nothings  across  her  for  five  minutes  :  and  having  thus  done 
their  social  duty,  as  they  considered,  and  satisfied  Johnny, 
they  both  turned  from  her  to  the  "  second  girl." 


170  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Take  those  third-act  scenes  again,  will  you,  In- 
gestre  ?  "  said  the  manager,  with  barely  veiled  authority, 
after  five  minutes'  rapid  talk  with  Jill.  "  She  studied 
them  three  years  since,  but  she's  bound  to  remember  if  she 
remembers  the  rest  so  well.  From  the  scroll-business  on- 
ward. Cut  anything,  gag  if  you  choose:  give  her  the 
Rosalind  cues,  that's  all,  and  play  up  to  her  showily,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean.  I  want  to  see." 

Johnny  did  know,  knowing  Mitchell,  and  also  knew 
there  was  no  escape.  Under  the  circumstances,  and  his 
own  roof,  he  could  hardly  refuse.  But  even  as  he  agreed, 
his  eye  fled  round  the  room,  searching  for  Helena. 

He  saw  her  near  the  door,  taking  leave  of  the  last  group 
of  Ursula's  contingent,  who  were  departing  with  their 
hostess  to  the  tea-room.  He  had  already  heard  her  gently 
refuse  Ursula's  offer  to  tea, —  she  must  remain  to  face  her 
critics,  naturally, —  and  to  see  her  own  part  played  by 
another,  to  her  face !  Johnny  swore  beneath  his  breath. 
He  would  have  driven  her  out,  then  and  there,  if  he  could, 
but  it  was  useless.  He  looked  about  the  rapidly  emptying 
room,  begged  Jill, —  or  rather  Jill's  tyrant, —  for  two 
minutes'  grace,  and  went  up  to  his  father,  who  was  on  the 
verge  of  leaving  too. 

"  I  say,"  jerked  Johnny  in  his  rear.  "  Can  you  stop 
half  an  hour?" 

Mr.  Ingestre  turned  in  surprise.  "  At  need,"  he  said. 
"Why?" 

Johnny  explained,  looking  rather  sulky,  with  his  eyes 
lowered.  "  I've  got  to  follow  orders,  for  the  moment," 
he  said.  "  Every  man  in  their  turn,  and  that  brute's  a 
martinet  at  home.  I  want  you  to  catch  Miss  Falkland, 
when  she  comes  back  from  the  door,  keep  her  by  you, 
make  love  to  her,  flatter  her  all  you're  fit, —  d'you 
mind?" 

"  I  can  manage,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  with  a  sardonic  eye. 
"  I  thought  that  was  your  job,  though." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Johnny  resentfully.     "  Mitchell's  just 


THE  ARTIST  171 

asked  me  to  insult  her  deliberately."  He  went  into  detail, 
and  his  father's  attitude  grew  more  sympathetic. 

"  Rough  on  the  little  girl,"  he  agreed,  "  when  she  tried 
so  hard,  and  looked  so  pretty  about  it.  Very  good:  I'll 
turn  Miss  Rosalind's  attention  upon  herself,  if  words  can 
do  it.  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  Shall  you  be  seeing  Violet  ?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  Immediately.  I'm  due  there  at  this  minute.  What 
am  I  to  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Johnny,  after  a  pause.     "  I'll  see  to  it." 

"  Is  it  as  bad  as  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ingestre. 

"  It's  pretty  vile,  for  the  poor  girl.  I  pretty  well  knew 
it  would  be,  if  it  wasn't  a  clear  success.  I  intended  a  suc- 
cess," explained  Johnny.  "  Mitchell's  got  the  manners  of 
a  swine, — .a  gilded  swine,  which  is  worse.  That's  my 
fault,  of  course,  I  let  her  in  for  that.  One  had  to  risk  it, 
in  getting  a  good  man."  He  paused,  his  eye  flitting  to 
Helena  by  the  door.  He  still  looked  sulky  and  spoke 
curtly,  which  generally  meant  he  was  anxious.  "  Fact  is, 
I've  rotted  it  pretty  well,  so  far,  but  you  needn't  tell  Violet 
that.  I'll  see  Fanny  afterwards,  and  pull  things  straight 
if  I  can, —  but  Fan  can't  do  much  with  Mitchell  across 
her,  really.  Luckily  he's  gone  off  for  the  moment  on  the 
other  girl.  Hope  he  stays  there,  that's  all.  I'm  not  want- 
ing him  to  turn  his  commercial  eye  on  Miss  Falkland  now. 
He  can  drop  it." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Mr.  Ingestre.  He  gave  his  son  an- 
other sly  glance,  while  his  eyes  were  diverted.  Johnny, 
when  he  was  disturbed,  was  given  to  betraying  himself, 
for  all  his  marked  ability,  in  general,  to  delude.  "  Well, 
go  along  with  you.  I'll  see  to  the  girl,  if  that's  all.  I  can 
stop  for  that." 

"  I  don't  want  Montagu  and  her  to  get  together,  barring 
I'm  there,"  insisted  Johnny.  "  See  ?  " 

"  Not  likely  any  Montagu'd  get  the  chance,"  said  Mr. 
Ingestre,  "  or  Capulet  either,  before  I  leave  myself."  He 
pushed  his  son  about  his  business,  and  turned  with  new 


i;2  THE  ACCOLADE 

interest  to  meet  the  Falkland  girl,  who  was  approaching. 

As  a  rule  Johnny's  father  took  his  proceedings  in  the 
social  world  for  granted,  not  to  mention,  by  this  time,  his 
success.  It  amused  Mr.  Ingestre,  as  it  had  occasionally 
amused  his  wife,  to  see  him  maneuver  his  way  through 
his  crowd  of  women,  playing  the  fool,  shaking  them  off 
restively  at  times,  but  always  returning  inevitably  to  their 
ways  again.  The  fact  that  Johnny  had  got  himself 
tangled  in  a  nice  little  net  composed  of  Violet  and  Fanny 
and  the  Falkland  girl,  complicated  by  Ursula,  would  not 
in  itself  have  surprised  his  father  at  all.  That  was  merely 
Johnny's  way,  and,  generally  speaking,  he  enjoyed  it,  and 
invariably,  hitherto,  he  had  escaped  scot-free.  It  was 
really,  on  the  broad  lines  of  justice,  high  time  that  Fate 
took  her  revenge  upon  him,  only  Mr.  Ingestre  had  grown 
somehow  into  the  belief  that  Fate  never  would. 

It  was  chance,  of  course,  in  part,  his  happy  chance,  that 
had  protected  him :  largely  the  kind  of  woman  he  had 
come  across,  who  had,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  preferred 
to  pamper  him  for  his  charms,  like  a  child.  But  beyond 
that,  Johnny  himself  was  difficult,  his  was  not  really  an 
easy  taste  to  please.  His  eye  was  caught  easily,  he  en- 
joyed experiment,  and  practised  trifling  as  a  pleasant 
game :  but  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  noose,  he  twisted  and 
looked  aside.  He  was  an  elusive  person  under  compul- 
sion, as  Mr.  Ingestre  had  discovered  long  since,  to  his 
cost:  and  the  compulsion  of  his  own  nature  would  be 
enough  to  alarm  him.  He  would  never  agree  to  serve,  in 
short,  except  in  the  highest  temple,  the  temple  of  his  de- 
liberate choice.  Was  it  conceivable  this  little  girl  of  nine- 
teen was  framed  to  occupy  that  pedestal  ?  That  was  Mr. 
Ingestre's  present  problem,  his  newest  interest,  evoked  by 
Johnny's  unusual  behavior.  It  seemed,  to  the  man  of  the 
world,  an  absurd  idea;  but  then  his  son,  on  the  side  he 
knew  least,  had  often  seemed  absurd,  rash,  at  least,  and 
unaccountable. 

He  admitted  the  danger  anew,  as  he  talked  to  Helena, 


THE  ARTIST  173 

and  all  the  more  that  he  had  been  talking  to  Ursula  just 
previously.  He  could  not  pretend  to  suppose,  at  this  time 
of  day,  that  the  marriage  he  had  prompted  had  been  a 
success,  though  how  far  it  was  a  tragedy  he  had  not 
penetrated  at  present.  He  could  not,  for  all  his  natural 
guile,  get  at  the  facts.  His  son  and  Ursula  both  dodged 
him,  Ursula  even  more  persistently  than  John.  Mr. 
Ingestre  had  been  "  drawing  "  Ursula  that  afternoon,  with 
all  the  arts  that  were  known  to  him,  in  vain.  He  could 
drag  no  definite  complaint  out  of  her,  though  her  general 
attitude  was  that  of  resentment,  hostility  to  all  inquiry 
or  interference  with  her  concerns.  That  it  was  John's 
family's  concern  as  well  she  did  not  seem  to  realize,  or 
deliberately  ignored  the  issue.  She  talked  coolly  and  cor- 
rectly on  superficial  subjects,  smilingly  granted  John's 
"  flirtations  "  with  this  woman  and  that,  and  shut  her  lips 
upon  her  grievances,  with  that  air  of  natural  superiority 
and  mild  martyrdom  to  which  the  family  were  used.  The 
family  were  getting  a  little  tired  of  the  attitude,  though 
of  course,  on  principle,  they  supported  Ursula  and  swore 
at  —  that  is,  censured  —  John.  Mr.  Ingestre,  in  his 
heart,  was  inclined  to  think  Ursula  a  dreadful  woman, 
both  cold  and  sly ;  but  nothing  would  have  induced  him  to 
air  the  opinion,  since  he  had  "  backed  "  the  girl  originally. 
He  would  hardly  word  it  to  himself. 

For  the  moment,  the  program  presented  him  was  agree- 
able, with  a  nice  girl  to  flatter  and  amuse,  the  excellent 
excuse  of  doing  so  in  his  son's  interest,  and  the  prospect, 
on  the  proximate  horizon,  of  wreaking  his  inner  uneasi- 
ness and  dissatisfaction  upon  Mrs.  Shovell's  head,  since 
his  own  wife,  who  should  have  borne  it,  was  out  of  town. 
Violet  was  useful  for  this  purpose,  as  several  of  the 
Ingestres  had  discovered.  She  was  both  clever  and  ac- 
commodating, and  none  of  her  distinguished  connections 
were  that.  They  were  one  thing,  or  the  other.  Johnny 
and  his  father  and  his  grandmother  were  clever,  and  his 
aunts  were  accommodating,  that  was  the  way  they  divided 


174  THE  ACCOLADE 

it:  each  excellent  quality  excluding  the  other  completely, 
in  every  case. 

Johnny's  program  was  less  attractive,  by  far.  As  he 
climbed  the  stage  once  more,  he  was  in  a  state  to  loathe 
Miss  Jacoby  for  driving  him  to  the  necessity.  She  might 
have  had  the  decency  to  refuse,  he  thought.  Once  upon 
the  boards,  and  launched  in  dialogue  with  her,  his  instincts 
were  too  much  for  him,  naturally,  and  he  acted  her  lover 
as  he  had  never  acted  Helena's.  He  cut  nothing,  for  all 
the  manager's  kind  permission :  and  the  reading  of  the 
scrolls,  the  challenge  to  the  game  of  love,  all  the  charming 
war  of  words  ran  through  without  a  hitch.  The  girl  was 
brilliant,  inspiring,  certainly:  yet  still,  something  was 
wrong.  She  did  not  move  quite  as  John  expected,  and  he 
had  more  than  once  to  tone  his  own  action  to  correspond ; 
while  behind  the  light  echo  of  her  delicious  voice,  he  was 
feeling  for  the-  tragedy  that  underlay  the  comedy,  all  the 
time.  She  smiled  without  her  eyes,  he  noted,  being  close ; 
her  eyes  were  tired.  Rosalind  was  emphatically  not  the 
part  for  her,  neatly  though  she  played  it.  Perhaps  Juliet, 
perhaps  Ophelia, —  never  Rosalind. 

"Pretty  good,  eh?"  said  Mitchell,  taking  his  wife's 
opinion.  He  was  the  slave  of  her  opinion  secretly,  but 
she  did  not  seem  to  want  to  give  it,  or  all  of  it,  on  this 
occasion.  She  would  tell  Ingestre  later,  probably. 
Mitchell  would  get  it  round  through  him. 

"  Why  doesn't  she  move  better  on  her  feet,  though  ? 
That's  all  I  want  to  know.  All  above  her  hips  is  easy,  it's 
only  below.  Look  at  that !  "  They  watched  again. 

Indeed,  it  was  clear  enough,  to  critics  placed  beneath 
her,  as  soon  as  she  stood  in  Rosalind's  shoes,  the  infirm- 
ity she  had  hidden  so  cleverly  as  Celia.  The  part  calls  for 
buoyant  and  brusque  movement:  and  just  where  she 
should  have  been  easiest,  ankles  and  knees,  this  Rosalind 
was  tied.  No  acting,  ingenious  as  the  acting  was,  could 
cover  it.  The  little  ring  of  critics  were  watching  a  tour 
de  force. 


THE  ARTIST  175 

"  She's  saving  steps,  certainly,"  said  the  actress. 
"  Though  she  could  act  if  she  was  planted.  She's  built  to 
act.  Twisted  her  ankle  possibly,  getting  up." 

"  What's  the  name,  did  Johnny  say  ?  "  asked  Mitchell. 

"  Jill  Jacoby,"  said  Fanny,  still  absent. 

The  manager  laughed.  "  Well,  at  the  worst  she  could 
sell  it,"  he  said. 

Ouentin  Auberon,  sitting  two  places  beyond  them,  and 
stiffening  visibly  as  he  listened,  at  the  laugh  turned  about. 

"  Would  you  mind  not  talking  quite  so  loud  ? "  he  said 
cuttingly  to  Mitchell.  "  Miss  Jacoby  is  lame." 

"  Lame  ? "  said  the  manager  sharply.  "  She's  on  her 
feet." 

"  She'll  suffer  for  it,"  said  Quentin.  "  She's  suffering 
now.  She  can't  walk  across  a  room  without  limping. 
She's  been  lame  for  years." 

"  Oh,  curse  it  all !  "  muttered  the  manager,  collapsing : 
and  there  was  silence  all  round,  for  some  time. 

Then  the  manager's  wife  arose  quietly,  with  no  excuse 
to  Mitchell  who  might  want  her,  moved  along,  and  sat 
down  by  Mr.  Auberon.  It  seemed  she  wanted  to  know  a 
few  more  details :  and  Quentin,  having  looked  her  fairly 
in  the  face,  decided  to  let  her  know  them. 

"Isn't  she  a  darling?"  said  Helena  suddenly.  "I  do 
feel  so  sorry  for  her,  I  don't  know  why." 

Mr.  Ingestre  looked  round  at  her  astonished.  The  in- 
stant after,  her  fair  head  was  in  her  hands. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  gasped.  "  It's  Shakespeare  — 
and  everything.  Oh,  do  you  think  I  can  get  away  ?  " 

"  Go,  my  dear,"  he  responded.  "  No  one's  attending  to 
us." 

"  Nor  ever  will,"  said  Helena.  She  laughed  and  looked 
up  with  wet  eyes.  "  Mr.  Ingestre,  is  that  genius  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  I  have  so  often  wondered  what  it  was, —  if  it 
existed  really.  It  must  be,  I  think,  to  make  one  feel  such 
a  fool," 


i;6  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  It  is,"  said  Johnny's  father.  "  And  this,  I  think,  is 
generosity.  It's  fully  as  uncommon,  Miss  Falkland, — 
rather  more  so.  Will  you  take  an  old  man's  word  for  it  ?  " 
He  put  a  hand  on  her  wrist  for  a  moment.  Helena's  head 
had  sunk  again,  and  he  saw  she  was  struggling  with  her 
tears. 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  —  your  son  ?  "  she  said,  with 
a  last  effort.  "  Say  it's  the  heat  —  headache.  You  are  all 
—  much  too  kind." 

And  she  slipped  away. 


PART  III 


JOHNNY  wrote  to  Helena,  and  Helena  debated  long 
whether  to  tell  her  mother  about  it.  It  was  a  business 
note, —  but  then  it  was  in  his  hand,  and  bore  his  full 
signature  at  the  end.  Helena  was  not  sure  whether  such 
a  document  could  concern  her  mother  really,  and  she  car- 
ried it  away  to  her  room,  and  sat  over  it,  guarding  it,  as 
it  were,  for  long. 

It  was  quite  a  few  lines,  expressed  curtly,  but  courte- 
ously,—  even  to  formality.  First,  he  excused  himself  for 
writing  by  mentioning  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  a 
private  word  with  her  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Then  he 
asked  "  if  he  might  hope  "  she  would  let  him  know,  at 
once,  any  proposal  Mitchell  might  make  her  of  the  pro- 
fessional order.  It  might  be  better,  he  said,  since  he  had 
experience,  that  he  should  act  as  intermediary,  and  judge 
of  the  nature  of  the  offer,  or  at  least  undertake  the  inter- 
views. Unless,  Johnny  concluded,  her  brother  or  her 
father  preferred  to  do  so. 

After  that  he  was  "  hers  to  command  " —  playful,  of 
course, —  John  Ingestre. 

It  was  that  "  unless  "  which  occupied  Helena.  There 
was  a  serious  suggestion  in  it  which,  having  borne 
Mitchell's  manner  and  glances  the  day  before,  she  under- 
stood. She  could  not  but  understand  it.  Helena  was  not 
so  raw  in  experience  as  not  to  know  that  beauty  alone  has 
its  market  value  on  the  stage,  as  in  the  seething  crowd 
below :  but  she  had  not  thought  to  have  to  dwell  upon  it, 
naturally.  She  had  been  more  than  a  little  vain,  in  secret, 

179 


i&>  THE  ACCOLADE 

of  her  acting  talent, —  she  had  cried  most  of  that  Sunday 
night  with  disappointment  and  hurt  pride, —  so  that  it  had 
never  occurred  to  her  simple  soul  that,  in  bidding  for  a 
place  in  the  public  eye,  she  might  have  to  depend  upon  her 
face  alone.  It  had  been  a  really  horrible  awakening, —  a 
real  shock ;  but  Mitchell's  brutality  had  left  her  little  doubt 
of  the  truth,  before  this  note  of  Johnny's  came,  kindly  and 
delicately,  to  finish  the  work. 

She  was  sure,  quite  sure,  that  was  what  it  meant :  death 
to  her  hopes  of  fame, —  defeat.  The  other  girl  had  ob- 
scured her,  of  course, —  she  had  suffered  one  wild  rush  of 
resentment  against  Jill, —  but  it  was  not  only  that.  She 
had  faith  enough  in  the  expert  to  believe  that  that  would 
not  have  diverted  the  Mitchells'  attention  so  entirely,  if 
she  herself  had  boasted  one  spark  of  Jill's  genius  for  the 
career.  Had  that  other  girl  been  radiantly  beautiful  to 
boot,  perhaps, —  but  she  was  little  and  lame  and  depen- 
dent,—  Helena  had  the  whole  panoply  of  worldly  advant- 
ages on  her  side :  and  still  —  still  they  had  looked  away. 

Johnny  himself  had  looked  away :  he  had,  she  knew  it. 
He  had  not  only  made  charming  love,  duty-bound,  to  Jill 
upon  the  stage.  He  had  been  impressed  and  overborne  by 
her  attainments,  quite  grave  in  his  respect.  Helena  had 
been  at  his  elbow  when  he  congratulated  her  the  first 
time,  trusted  earnestly  she  was  not  too  tired,  and  thanked 
her  for  her  help.  He  had  been  more  than  the  polite  host, 
more  than  the  grateful  manager,  at  that  moment.  Helena 
had  seen  it,  and  had  heard. 

If  anything  —  anything  she  could  do,  in  life,  with  years 
of  patient  study  and  self-repression,  would  turn  that  look 
of  his  upon  herself !  That  was  himself, —  she  knew  him 
now, —  had  been  privileged  to  divine  the  central  man,  the 
essential  part.  She  felt  she  held  it,  nursed  it  with  his  let- 
ter in  her  hands.  His  wife  missed  it  utterly,  his  father 
ignored,  his  friends  travestied  and  made  light  of  it,  Mrs. 
Shovell  had  been  given  a  glimpse  perhaps, —  but  she  had 
never  seen  as  much  as  Helena !  She  had  not  been  taught 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  181 

by  him,  talked  to  by  him  during  long  delightful  working 
mornings,  scolded  by  him,  and  watched  by  critical  cool 
eyes  that  never  changed,  or  relaxed  the  high  standard  he 
guarded,  in  secret,  for  himself.  Helena  was  the  first  in 
the  world  to  share  that,  so  she  believed.  He  was  an  artist, 
a  power  that  could  make  the  Mitchells  stare  and  laugh, 
while  they  feigned  to  look  aside.  He  was  her  master, 
Helena's, —  because  she  wanted  him  so  much  to  be !  She 
longed  to  be  mastered,  passionately,  granted  it  should  be 
by  him.  It  was  not  fair,  it  was  not  reasonable,  that  any- 
one should  think  her  wicked  for  desiring  that. 

So,  having  reached  this  discovery,  that  it  was  not  the 
applause  of  the  world  she  wanted  any  longer,  but  only  and 
simply  his, —  she  awoke  with  a  start.  A  start  almost  of 
horror,  for  indeed  she  had  thought  that  her  ambition  was 
real.  It  must  be  there  still,  that  cherished  dream  of  years, 
if  she  looked  for  it.  It  was  not  possible  she  was  so  shal- 
low, such  a  humbug  as  that ! 

Helena  arose,  shook  herself,  walked  about,  and  looked 
for  her  ambition  where  she  had  been  accustomed  to  find  it, 
in  all  the  corners  of  her  room.  It  was  in  none  of  the 
familiar  places, —  quite  other,  surging  thoughts  were  there. 
She  put  the  note  on  her  dressing-table  and  looked  at  it. 
Then  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  What  was  hap- 
pening to  her?  What  was  to  become  of  her?  What  — 
would  he  say? 

Out, —  that  was  Helena's  next  thought,  her  next 
conscious  thought,  for  it  occurred  after  a  long  time, —  out 
of  doors.  When  she  was  Grossest  in  the  country,  a  long 
walk  was  her  remedy,  and  this  was  worse  than  being 
cross,  by  far.  .  .  .  Unluckily,  she  was  a  young  lady  en- 
joying her  first  season  in  London :  there  were  no  country 
vistas  anywhere  to  look  at :  nothing  lay  beneath  her  win- 
dow but  odious,  dusty  streets.  Also,  it  was  just  lunch- 
time, —  it  always  is  at  these  crises  of  our  fate, —  bells  and 
things  would  be  ringing  immediately, —  her  father,  Harold 
and  Mr.  Auberon  would  appear  from  different  quarters  of 


182  THE  ACCOLADE 

the  house,  and  look  at  her,  with  their  pleasant  familiar 
faces,  across  a  table. 

This  last  thought  could  simply  not  be  borne.  Some 
excuse  must  be  thought  of  to  avoid  it.  Ill  ?  —  she  was 
never  ill,  that  would  barely  be  credited.  Helena  put  on 
her  hat,  determined  at  least  to  get  a  breath  of  air,  and  ran 
downstairs  with  extreme,  rather  unusual  impetuosity. 
Her  movements  were  stately  and  quiet  as  a  rule. 

There  was  a  shriek  and  yelp  and  scramble  as  she 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"  Oh,  darling!  "  ejaculated  Miss  Falkland  in  passionate 
apology. 

The  darling  in  question,  as  usual  in  that  house,  was  a 
dog.  It  was  the  latest  fat  puppy,  belonging  primarily  to 
all  the  Falklands,  who  fought  for  it ;  and  in  a  secondary 
manner  to  Lesbia,  the  Captain's  faithful  hound.  Observ- 
ing Miss  Falkland  on  the  staircase,  it  had  naturally  rolled 
over  on  the  mat  to  bite  her  shoe  as  she  came  by :  only  she 
came  too  fast,  and  overwhelmed  it. 

Helena,  having  only  just  saved  herself  by  great  address 
and  agility  from  a  serious  fall,  picked  up  Lesbia's  puppy  to 
comfort  and  caress.  The  sight  of  it  suggested  an  idea  of 
escape,  so  simply  brilliant,  that  she  cheered  at  once.  She 
would  invite  herself  out  to  lunch  at  a  quiet  house,  and 
play  with  a  baby  afterwards.  A  baby  was  the  next  best 
thing  to  the  open  country,  after  all. 

Helena  had  pursued  her  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Shovell 
under  difficulties,  since  her  mother  persistently  disap- 
proved of  her,  until  she  had  had  the  cunning  idea  one  day 
of  introducing  her  father,  casually,  during  a  walk  in  the 
Park.  The  ruse  succeeded,  quite  beyond  her  hopes. 
Mrs.  Shovell,  it  appeared,  was  looking  for  a  dog,  and  the 
Captain  rose  to  the  bait  immediately.  He  talked  for 
twenty  minutes  about  dogs  in  general,  and  for  another 
twenty  minutes  about  his  dog.  Before  the  close  of  his 
conversation  (if  it  could  be  called  so)  with  Helena's 
friend,  he  had  paid  her  the  highest  compliment  man,  in 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  183 

the  person  of  the  Captain,  could  offer  to  woman, —  a  puppy 
of  Lesbia's.  Mrs.  Shovell  accepted  in  a  proper  spirit, 
and  the  puppy  was  now  undergoing  daily  instruction  in 
the  domestic  arts,  with  a  view  to  taking  charge  of  her 
household. 

Helena  put  the  protesting  puppy  in  a  basket,  and  told 
the  servants  in  the  dining-room  that  she  was  invited  out 
to  lunch,  and  would  they  tell  Captain  Falkland  she  was 
taking  the  little  dog,  because  the  lady  wanted  to  look  at 
it. 

This  was  true,  in  so  far  as  that  no  lady  in  existence 
could  refuse  to  look  at  Lesbia's  puppy,  once  her  attention 
was  called  to  it;  but  the  rest  of  the  excuse  was  entirely 
false,  because  Helena  had  no  invitation.  It  only  oc- 
curred to  her,  in  the  happy  manner  in  which  things  did 
occur,  that  Mrs.  Shovell  was  always  alone  for  the  midday 
meal,  since  her  husband  lunched  in  town :  and  that  her 
company  was  less  intolerable  by  several  degrees  than  that 
of  anyone  Helena  could  think  of  in  the  ranks  of  her  ac- 
quaintance, new  and  old.  Why  this  was,  Helena  had  not 
the  least  idea,  since  she  never  analyzed  people,  she  only  let 
her  enthusiasms  lead  her  blindly.  She  thought  Violet 
rather  old,  and  bewilderingly  brilliant, —  Johnny  had 
quoted  her  once  or  twice  —  but  as  she  had  quite  deter- 
mined, before  this  took  place,  to  love  her  ardently,  it 
hardly  mattered;  and  she  continued  to  seek  her  society, 
and  that  of  her  composed  baby,  whenever  life's  problems 
became  quite  too  much  for  her,  as  to-day. 

"  Hal-lo !  "  said  John,  stopping  short,  much  perturbed. 

Gentlemen  do  not  customarily  call  on  their  friends  at 
the  end  of  the  midday  luncheon  hour,  so  we  may  acquit 
Helena  of  all  design  in  the  matter,  and  Helena's  hostess  of 
all  intrigue.  Not  to  mention  that  Mr.  Ingestre  seemed  as 
much  put  out  as  either  of  them. 

"  Many  I  introduce  you  ?  "  said  Violet,  supposing  him  to 
be  struck  with  the  beauty  of  Lesbia's  puppy,  which  occu- 


184  THE  ACCOLADE 

pied  the  third  place  at  the  table,  facing  her.  Johnny, 
with  an  effort,  turned  his  attention  in  that  direction. 

"  What  sort  of  a  dog  is  it  ? "  he  said,  having  taken  it  in 
with  the  cold  eye  of  a  connoisseur. 

"  It's  not  exactly "  began  Helena. 

"  It's  a  watch-puppy,"  said  Violet  firmly.  "  The  son  of 
a  great  watch-dog.  Helena's  father  is  teaching  it.  It's 
supposed  to  be  at  school." 

"  What's  it  learning  ?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  Protection,  John :  of  me  and  my  belongings.  You 
must  be  very  careful  what  you  say." 

"  Pooh,"  said  Johnny,  after  a  pause.  "  It's  not  a  real 
dog, —  it's  a  kind  of  a  rabbit." 

Advancing  to  the  table,  he  reached  across  and  picked  up 
three  silver  spoons  from  it,  choosing  with  care.  Then  he 
slid  them  into  his  pocket,  clashed  them  ostentatiously,  and 
looked  at  the  puppy.  Lesbia's  puppy  looked  back  with 
one  ear  up  and  its  head  inclined  slightly  to  the  side,  as 
though  taking  note  of  curious  social  customs  in  a  strange 
land.  But  there  was  sentiment  in  the  gaze  as  well, — 
ardor,  submission,  confidence, —  everything  that  a  burglar 
least  expects. 

"  Isn't  it  sweet ?  "  said  Miss  Falkland,  in  a  tone  of  awe. 

"  Call  that  a  dog ! "  said  Johnny.  He  laughed. 
"  Violet,  I  say," —  he  dropped  his  hands  on  her  shoulders 
from  behind, — "  I'm  going  home  again." 

"  Not  with  my  spoons,"  Violet  murmured.  She  tried 
to  see  his  face,  feeling  his  tone  and  behavior  unusual ;  but 
as  he  persisted  in  standing  just  behind  her,  was  not  able. 

"  I  only  came  to  leave  some  things,"  Johnny  pursued, 
"  roses  and  so  on,  Mother  sent  up  from  the  country. 
They're  tired  with  the  journey, —  pretty  dead, —  I  left 
them  out  there  in  the  hall." 

"  Not  roses,  John !  " 

"  Yes,  because  I  looked  inside.  They're  the  dropping 
white  ones,  out  of  her  little  greenhouse, —  remember  ? 
One  fell  all  to  pieces  when  I  took  it  out." 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  185 

"  Dreadful,"  said  Violet,  as  grave  as  he.  "  But  aren't 
they  meant  for  Ursula  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  asseverated,  "  they're  mine,  all  mine ;  she  sent 
'em  to  me.  It  means  she's  too  tired  to  write,  probably," 
he  added,  "  I  wish  I  knew." 

Violet,  as  usual  where  the  matter  touched  Ursula,  did 
not  argue  the  point  of  possession.  Ursula  did  not  care  for 
his  mother, —  she  did, —  that  was  enough  for  Johnny. 
His  instincts  in  such  things  had  all  the  weight  of  another 
person's  good  reasons. 

"  Am  I  to  go  to  them  now  ?  "  she  enquired  with  lifted 
brows. 

Johnny  pinched  her  neck  for  all  answer.  He  did  not 
know  what  he  wanted.  He  thought  she  could  find  out. 

Violet  supposed  he  might  wish  to  lecture  Helena  on  the 
acting,  or  something  of  that  sort.  A  pinch  is  not  of  much 
assistance  to  a  hostess,  especially  when  she  is  not  allowed 
to  see  a  man's  face.  She  rose. 

"  You  can  have  my  chair,"  she  told  him.  "  Will  you 
take  care  of  Miss  Falkland,  and  bring  her  up  to  the  draw- 
ing-room when  she  has  finished?  She's  pretty  dead,  too, 
after  yesterday, —  I  think  you  overworked  her.  You  look 
the  better  for  it,  as  usual."  She  laughed  at  him. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Johnny  earnestly,  "  I  had  a 
rotten  time.  I  say,  you  needn't  go."  He  now  seemed 
dissatisfied  with  her  movement,  and  detained  her  with  a 
finger  and  thumb. 

However,  on  second  thoughts,  he  loosed  her  and  sub- 
sided in  her  chair ;  and  she  went,  swiftly  in  her  fashion, 
snapping  her  fingers  to  the  puppy  by  the  way.  Where- 
upon the  puppy,  diverted  from  its  fixed  worship  of  the 
great  creature,  man,  by  the  airy  movement,  tumbled  off 
its  chair  in  a  hurry,  and  followed  her  whisking  skirts. 

Silence  ensued  on  their  departure.  Johnny  looked  shy, 
just  like  Orlando  on  the  stage.  He  wondered  if  Miss 
Falkland  were  offended  with  him,  and  what  must  have 
been  her  opinion  of  that  presumptuous  letter.  He  had 


i86  THE  ACCOLADE 

been  certain,  the  instant  after  dispatching  it,  that  the 
letter  was  a  thoroughly  awkward  stroke,  ill-written,  and 
cheeky  in  the  extreme.  He  was  sure  now,  by  Miss  Falk- 
land's majestic  and  benign  appearance,  that  she  was  resent- 
ing it  greatly,  though  she  might  be  too  kind  to  say  so. 

Helena  wondered  a  little  at  his  silence, —  she  had  never 
known  him  silent  before.  Yet  he  could  say  nothing  in  the 
circumstances,  but  that  she  had  failed,  which  was  not  his 
fault, —  the  contrary.  She  decided  that,  fearful  as  it  was, 
she  would  have  to  open  the  conversation. 

"  I  wanted  —  to  thank  you "  she  hesitated. 

"  You  needn't,"  he  cut  swiftly  in.  "  I've  done  nothing 
for  you,  but  let  you  in  for  a  pretty  rank  time  of  it,  all 
round."  A  pause,  his  eyes  wandering.  "  And  it  was  fair 
cheek  to  write,"  he  pressed  on,  "  but  I  couldn't  well  avoid 
it,  in  the  state  of  things.  You  see,  I  know  them.  You 
can  trust  Fan  —  Mrs.  Mitchell  to  the  hilt,  she's  good  stuff 
through  and  through.  But  I  wouldn't  trust  Mr.  Monty 
more  than  you  can  see  him  with  the  naked  eye, —  that's  all. 
And  in  any  case  you  have  to  keep  your  eyes  open  in  the 
trade,"  he  concluded  hastily. 

"  I  know  that,"  she  said  gently.  "  At  least  I  mean,  I 
recognize  it  now.  The  only  thing  I  wonder  now,  is  why 
you  ever  troubled  about  me  at  all." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Johnny. 

She  laughed,  and  then  covered  her  face.  She  had  not 
meant  to, —  but  really,  things  were  a  little  too  much. 

"  Don't  cry,"  said  Johnny,  suddenly  reckless.  "  If  you 
cry,  I  shall  go.  I  shall  have  to.  As  it  is,  I  oughtn't  to  be 
here." 

He  got  up,  really  alarmed  of  his  own  feelings,  seized  a 
handful  of  nuts  from  a  dish  in  front  of  him,  and  went  to 
the  window  with  them,  while  she  recovered.  Cracking 
nuts  with  his  strong  fingers  was  some  slight  solace  for  the 
itch  he  felt  in  them  to  get  at  the  elegant  Mitchell's  throat. 
He  had  all  but  quarreled  with  Mitchell  the  day  before, — 
and  then  again,  he  had  avoided  it.  For  the  beast  was 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  187 

very  sharp,  and  had  best  not  be  given  to  understand  that 
Johnny  was  —  as  it  were  —  over-interested  in  Miss  Falk- 
land. So,  on  second  thoughts,  Johnny  had  let  it  alone, 
and  talked  a  bit  to  Fanny,  who  was  steadily,  and  for  years 
past,  his  friend. 

"  I'd  better  not  have  meddled,"  he  said  in  a  troubled 
tone.  "  You'd  have  found  something,  probably,  sooner  or 
later,  on  your  own  lines." 

"  I'd  have  found  the  imitation,"  said  Helena,  "  and  you 
showed  me  the  real.  A  little  bit  of  it,  but  enough.  I 
shall  never  forget  your  acting,  nor  hers.  Don't  think  I'm 

ungrateful,  please.  It's  only '  She  paused,  biting 

her  lip.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  swerving  to  him, — "wasn't  I 
a  donkey  ever  to  think  of  it?  —  just  tell  me  the  truth." 

"  You  care  for  it,"  said  Johnny,  half-turning  too,  "  and 
you're  serious.  Half  the  girls  who  go  in  for  it  are  not, 
specially  if  they  look  like  you.  Excuse  me,  Miss  Falk- 
land, it's  the  fact.  It's  more  than  probable  Mitchell 
thought  you  asked  no  better  than  to  be  looked  at."  He 
paused  in  turn.  "  But  she  saw  further,  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that.  She  told  me  she  liked  earnestness,  and  that  you  had 
a  style."  * 

"She?  Mrs.  Mitchell?  Did  she  really ?"  The  girl's 
face  glowed  through  her  tears.  "  How  frightfully  good 
you  all  are  to  me !  "  she  said,  her  beautiful  warmth  break- 
ing like  the  sun  through  mists.  "  And  you  say  you  have 
done  nothing  for  me,  Mr.  Ingestre,  when  you  have  got  me 
that!" 

Johnny  laughed,  liking  it  though.  "  Fan's  an  impul- 
sive soul,"  he  said,  subsiding  with  his  collection  of  nuts  on 
the  sill  of  the  open  garden  window,  "  but  she  meant  it. 
And  I'll  go  as  far  as  to  say  one  of  her  words  is  worth  ten 
of  his, —  or  mine." 

"  Could  you  find  ten  for  me  ?  "  ventured  Helena.  "  I 
don't  mind  what  sort.  You  can't  be  angrier  about  it  than 
I  am,  anyhow.  Would  you  tell  me  exactly  what  you 
think, —  truth  between  us?  Would  you  mind?" 


188  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  I  would,"  said  Johnny  privately.  He  cracked  a  nut, 
considering.  "  What  do  you  want  to  know  ? "  he  tem- 
porized. 

"  Hadn't  I  better  let  it  drop  altogether  ?  Aren't  I  wast- 
ing my  time  ?  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  waste  time  practising  any  art," 
said  Johnny  with  caution.  "  Specially  Shakespeare, — 
pretty  good  stuff, —  er  rather  a  special  line  to  speak  him." 
He  glanced  at  her,  but  she  did  not  seem  satisfied.  He 
looked  all  round  the  room,  and  about  the  garden,  for  in- 
spiration. "It's  an  —  er  —  question  of  comparison,  I 
should  say."  Inspiration  arrived.  "  You  ask  Violet 
what  she  thinks." 

"  I'm  asking  you,"  said  Miss  Falkland. 

Johnny's  eyebrows  went  up,  and  down  again.  She  put 
him  in  a  hard  position.  In  the  interval  Hamlet's  observa- 
tion — "  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,"  came  unbidden  to  his 
mind,  and  he  wanted  to  laugh.  He  constantly  wanted  to 
laugh  to-day,  for  no  particular  reason.  He  looked  fur- 
tively in  Miss  Falkland's  direction,  with  the  unborn  laugh- 
ter in  his  eyes, —  and  behold,  she  smiled  as  well.  So  it 
was  hopeless,  and  they  smiled  at  one  another. 

"  Mr.  Ingestre, —  are  you  one  of  the  people  who  think 
women  ought  not  to  work  at  all  ?  "  said  Helena  gravely. 

"  Some  of  'em  have  to,"  said  Johnny.  "  I  think  often 
they're  —  er  —  better  occupied  when  they  don't." 

Helena  considered  this  paradox.  "  Like  your  cousin," 
she  suggested.  "  But  she  could  have  done  heaps  of 
things." 

"  Violet  could  have  been  a  third-rate  pianiste,"  said 
Johnny,  turning  the  matter  over.  "  Second-rate,  if  she 
put  her  back  into  it.  Bad  second-rate,  let's  say."  A 
pause.  "  She's  better  occupied  bucking  up  the  dead  flow- 
ers, and  seeing  to  Shovell's  food, " 

"  And  dancing  with  you,"  said  Helena. 

"  She  was  pretty  thoroughly  occupied  then,"  agreed 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  189 

Johnny.  "  Do  you  like  nuts,  Miss  Falkland  ?  "  He  held 
her  out  some,  ready  picked,  in  his  palm. 

Helena  felt  she  ought  to  have  refused  politely ;  but  his 
manner  was  deceptively  easy,  and  she  happened  to  share 
the  taste.  Besides,  let  a  London  season  do  its  worst,  the 
schoolgirl  is  still  in  existence  at  nineteen,  hardly  veiled  by 
the  polite  lady.  So  for  a  time  they  ate  nuts  in  concert, 
like  a  pair  of  street  boys.  Both  were  silent,  but  neither 
was  at  all  uncomfortable.  Helena  liked  to  see  him  sitting 
at  the  window,  and  Johnny  was  enjoying  the  sun.  That 
is,  he  supposed  it  was  the  sun  he  was  enjoying  —  it  was  a 
very  decent  kind  of  day. 

"  And  what  about  Mrs.  Mitchell  ?  "  said  Helena,  resum- 
ing suddenly.  "  She  has  done  something,  hasn't  she  ?  " 

"  She  has,"  said  Johnny,  with  emphasis.  "  And  worn 
herselT  to  rags  by  forty-five." 

"Are  you  sure  it's  her  work  has  worn  her?"  said 
Helena,  greatly  venturing.  "  It  might  be  other  things." 

"  Mitchell,  for  instance,"  said  Johny. 

"  Marriage,"  said  Helena.  "  Even  I  have  seen  some 
people  worn  out  by  that." 

Suddenly,  quite  unforeseen,  for  she  had  spoken  in  all 
innocence,  Ursula  came  to  her  mind,  and  she  blushed 
furiously.  In  the  same  instant,  rather  hurriedly,  she  rose. 
"  I  expect  Mrs.  Shovell's  waiting  for  us  upstairs,"  she 
said,  in  a  tone  consciously  sedate :  delicious  to  Johnny,  who 
had  coaxed  her  into  her  late  audacity  with  care.  "  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  thinking  about,  keeping  you  down 
here,  when  of  course  you  want  to  talk  to  her." 

"  Why  should  I  want  to  talk  to  her  ?  "  said  Johnny,  his 
eyes  detaining  her. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  that's  what  you  came  for,  wasn't  it  ? 
I'm  sure  it  wasn't  only  the  flowers." 

He  had  nothing  to  answer  for  the  moment.  "  I  may 
have  wanted  to  curse  to  her  a  little,"  he  confessed  with  a 
laugh,  stretching  his  arms.  "  That's  what  my  father 


190  THE  ACCOLADE 

comes  here  for,  often,  when  my  mother's  too  ill  to  attend 
to  him.  It's  one  of  the  uses  of  women, —  one  of  the  nice 
occupations  for  'em  I  mentioned." 

"  I  happen  to  know  better,"  said  Helena. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  he  said  quickly,  looking  round. 

"You  are  not  a  person  to  complain,  ever,  Mrs.  Shovell 
says :  you  are  much  too  proud.  I  don't  know  about  your 
father,  but  I'm  sure  about  you." 

"  I  don't  say  complain,"  said  Johnny.  "  You  don't  com- 
plain of  things  for  which  you're  chiefly  responsible:  at 
least,  I  don't.  But  we  make  women  suffer  for  'em,  all  the 
same.  I'm  a  brute,  you  know,  Miss  Falkland.  Perhaps 
you've  guessed  it." 

She  only  shook  her  head.  She  was  standing  now,  clear 
of  the  lunch-table,  eyes  leveled  past  him,  liquid  and 
thoughtful,  her  fingers  clasped, —  waiting  his  good 
pleasure  to  rise,  of  course.  It  was  sickening  manners  not 
to, —  simply  sickening, —  but  Johnny  still  sat  in  the  sun. 

"  What's  Violet  told  you  about  me  ?  "  he  said  suddenly. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Helena,  blushing.  "  Except  that  your 
father  was  rather  —  rough  with  you,  and  your  mother 
kind." 

"  If  my  father's  rough  with  me,  I'm  rough  with  him," 
said  Johnny.  "  We  pull  things  pretty  equal  between  us. 
My  mother's  an  angel  upon  earth."  He  waited  a  minute. 
"  So's  my  wife,  another  variety.  So's  the  kid  up  there, 
when  she  holds  her  tongue,  which  isn't  often."  He  tossed 
the  last  nutshell  out  of  the  window.  "  I've  not  much  to 
complain  of,"  he  concluded.  "  Let's  go  upstairs." 

He  rose  with  an  effort,  breaking  the  spell  upon  him,  and 
came  across  to  her.  Helena  meant  to  move,  and  found,  in 
that  instant,  that  his  fingers  grasped  her  arm. 

"  If  I  could  ever  hope,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice,  absent 
almost,  "  that  you  would  listen  to  me  once  —  no 
more " 

He  paused,  attentive.  He  had  caught  a  movement 
above.  As  they  stood  in  silence,  side  by  side,  a  door  above 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  191 

opened,  and  Mrs.  Shovell,  who  had  put  all  the  roses  in 
water,  long  since,  and  grown  impatient,  ran  downstairs. 

As  she  entered,  Helena  recoiled  slightly,  but  John  did 
not  move  or  change  countenance.  It  was  not  his  habit 
to  avoid  criticism, —  he  walked  over  it  or  rode  it  down. 
He  went  on  holding  Miss  Falkland's  arm  for  three  sec- 
onds, and  dropped  it  easily.  It  was  Violet's  countenance 
that  changed. 

"  If  you  want  to  see  baby  before "  she  began 

thoughtfully,  her  eyes  on  John. 

"  Of  course,"  cried  Helena,  and  disappeared,  in  no 
time,  from  the  room.  After  that,  it  grew  more  difficult. 
Mr.  Ingestre  put  on  all  the  arrogance  he  could  muster,  but 
it  barely  sufficed.  The  mistress  of  the  house  was  very 
much  on  her  dignity  too. 

"  Well  ? "  he  enquired  at  last,  as  she  did  not  speak, 
arranging  some  of  her  white  roses  on  the  table. 

"Were  you  rehearsing  just  now?"  she  demanded 
crisply. 

"  I  was,"  said  Johnny.  "  For  a  scene  that'll  never  come 
off." 

"  I'm  serious,  John." 

"  So  am  I,  Violet, —  uncommonly  serious.  Will  you 
coach  her  in  her  part  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  if  it's  flirting."  She  flushed  and  flashed 
on  him  suddenly.  "  And  let  me  tell  you,  John,  if  it's  that, 
you've  cast  her  wrong.  She's  not  a  person  to  flirt  with, 
never  would  be.  You'd  do  better  to  leave  her  alone." 

"  You're  quite  right."  John  laughed  and  approached 
her.  "  Keep  your  temper,  little  girl,"  he  said  lower. 
"  All's  well,  on  my  word, —  never  was  better.  I'm  going 
now." 

He  had  his  grandest  manner,  and  with  it  a  serenity 
that  baffled  her.  He  seemed  inwardly  radiant,  as  at  the 
solution  of  some  long-guarded  problem:  that  look  in  the 
discoverer  that  seems  to  exclaim  "Of  course!  " 

Violet  let  herself  be  drawn  as  far  as  the  outer  door,  and 


192  THE  ACCOLADE 

stood  with  him  a  minute  on  the  threshold,  biting  her  lip. 
To  be  mastered  by  brute  force,  and  a  superior  manner, 
when  you  are  morally  in  the  right,  is  rather  hard  to  bear : 
but  Johnny's  best  friends  had  to  suffer  it  frequently. 

"  Hadn't  she  been  crying?"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  She's  no  actress,  and  we  had  to  tell  her  so. 
We've  been  trampling  on  her  hopes,  these  last  two  days. 
You  go  and  be  nice  to  her,  see?  " 

"  John  —  is  that  really  all  ?     Honor  ?  " 

"  All  that  concerns  her." 

"And  you?" 

"  Never  you  mind."  An  interval.  "  Anything  more?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  another,"  said  Violet,  "  but  I  think 
I  won't." 

"  I  think  you'd  bettern't,"  said  Johnny  carefully. 
"  You  go  and  look  after  your  kid." 

"After  that,  I  just  shall!  "  she  said.  Johnny  winced, 
and  stood  at  bay.  She  had  him  at  her  mercy  for  an  in- 
stant. "  Will  you  give  me  my  spoons  ?  "  she  said  mildly. 
"  They're  still  in  your  pocket, —  the  other  side.  That's 
all." 

Turning  away  from  the  door,  Mrs.  Shovell  went  back 
to  the  dining-room,  and  restored  the  spoons,  with  unneces- 
sary precision,  to  their  places  on  the  dismantled  table. 

"  That's  what  his  father  meant,  then,"  she  reflected. 
"  Him  at  least, —  if  it  should  be  both !  And  I  introduced 
them, —  and  her  mother, —  mercy !  " 


II 

It  need  hardly  be  stated,  to  those  intelligent  persons  who 
have  followed  our  drama  so  far,  that,  as  the  situation 
defined  itself,  the  Ingestres  were  the  first,  and  the  Falk- 
lands  the  last,  to  take  account  of  it:  nor  that  Helena's 
mother  was  the  last  of  all. 

The  fact  was,  Mrs.  Falkland  was  quite  puzzled,  almost 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  193 

dazed,  among  Helena's  innumerable  and  ardent  admirers, 
who  seemed  to  spring  up,  that  season,  wherever  the  girl 
went.  One  really  could  not  pick  out  one,  among  so  many, 
still  less  one  whose  wife  Mrs.  Falkland  had  determined  to 
cherish  among  her  dearest  friends.  Young  Mrs.  Ingestre 
was  so  completely  "  nice  "  that  no  one  could  have  doubts 
of  her  household,  and  Mrs.  Falkland  grew  used  to  the 
chaffing  tone  in  which  everybody  —  even  his  wife  — 
alluded  to  Mr.  John.  Further,  there  could  be  no  doubt  he 
was  an  important  and  attractive  person :  and  her  respect 
for  John's  abstract  importance  was  increased  by  the  fact 
that,  when  she  called  upon  Ursula,  he  was  never  there. 

As  for  the  rest  of  the  small  Falkland  circle,  the  Captain 
went  out  with  his  women-folk  very  little,  Quentin  still 
less,  Helena's  married  sister  was  completely  wrapped  up 
in  her  own  affairs, —  and  Harold,  who  saw  everything, 
said  nothing  at  all. 

Meanwhile  the  Ingestres  kept  their  eyes  open,  being 
astonishingly  open-eyed  by  nature  in  such  cases,  and  hav- 
ing had  plenty  of  such  cases  to  study. 

"  Who's  that  pretty  girl  ?  "  said  Johnny's  grandmother 
to  him,  in  the  Park.  They  were  driving,  on  a  Saturday 
afternoon,  and  had  chanced  to  pass  Miss  Falkland  and 
Mr.  Auberon,  walking  on  the  path. 

"  Miss  Helena  Falkland,"  said  Johnny  distinctly :  for 
his  grandmother,  at  something  over  eighty-five,  was  grow- 
ing a  little  deaf. 

"  Introduce  me  to  her,"  said  the  dowager,  her  eye 
lightening :  and  stopped  the  carriage. 

Until  they  met  Helena,  Johnny  had  been  cross.  He 
hated  driving,  and  did  not  care  for  his  grandmother ;  but 
he  had  been  commandeered.  Mrs.  Ingestre,  who  re- 
garded the  new  generation  as  young  children,  naturally, 
thought  it  would  be  nice  for  John  and  Ursula  to  come  in 
the  carriage  with  her,  and  called  for  them  at  four  o'clock. 
Ursula  was  not  at  home, —  Johnny  was, —  and  could  not 
think,  on  the  spur  of  the  minute,  of  a  good  enough  excuse, 


194  THE  ACCOLADE 

Mrs.  Ingestre  would  have  seen  through  any  but  an  excuse 
of  genius,  and  Johnny's  genius,  for  the  minute,  failed  him. 

He  told  her  the  truth,  in  consequence, —  that  he  was 
working:  and  she  laughed  in  his  face.  Johnny,  besides 
the  historical  researches  he  conducted  for  his  private 
amusement,  managed  the  larger  of  his  father's  two  estates, 
with  its  miles  of  productive  farm-land  in  Yorkshire,  with 
great  ability,  and  saved  his  father  yearly  at  least  half  his 
own  income.  But  since  he  had  neglected  his  duties,  and 
outraged  his  relations'  best  feelings,  during  the  years 
preceding  his  majority,  half  of  them  had  never  discovered 
that  he  had  any  practical  qualities  at  all,  and  his  grand- 
mother —  to  whom  he  remained  simply  a  naughty  boy  — 
scoffed  at  them  openly.  So  he  had  to  leave  his  accounts 
in  the  middle,  contain  his  objurgations,  sit  in  his  grand- 
mother's carriage  facing  her  bonnet  and  waving  feathers, 
and  submit  to  her  piercing  and  disapproving  scrutiny  at 
intervals. 

It  was  Johnny's  generation  Mrs.  Ingestre  disapproved 
of,  more  than  of  himself.  Personally,  he  had  a  few  ad- 
vantages. To  begin  with,  he  was  the  only  member  of 
the  family  who  invariably  made  her  hear.  He  also  not 
infrequently  amused  her,  though  she  never  showed  it. 
It  was  beneath  Mrs.  Ingestre's  dignity  to  look  amused. 
He  also  cut  a  figure  before  the  world,  and  compelled 
attention, —  both  good  things.  But  he  had  been  spoiled, — 
his  mother  had  spoiled  him.  His  generation  was  to  blame 
for  some  of  his  deficiencies,  but  his  mother  was  the  most 
in  fault. 

Mrs.  Ingestre  had  brought  up  her  own  children  with 
the  extreme  of  old-fashioned  severity,  the  daughters  yet 
more  than  the  sons.  The  daughters  she  bullied  most  had 
been  the  plain  ones,  whereas  her  orphan  niece,  educated 
with  her  own  family,  had  been  considered,  if  not  indulged. 
This  niece,  Violet  Shovell's  mother,  had  become  one  of 
the  reigning  beauties  of  her  generation :  which  note  leads 
us  directly  to  the  solitary  weakness  of  Mrs.  Ingestre,  the 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  195 

same  that  had  led  her  to  distinguish  Helena  Falkland  in 
the  Park.  She  adored  feminine  beauty,  especially  of  a 
certain  conquering  type,  and  was  easily  vanquished  by  it. 

"  That's  one  of  the  golden-fleece  order  of  women,"  she 
said,  when  she  had  been  presented,  conversed  with  Helena 
sufficiently,  and  dismissed  her, —  or  allowed  her  to  depart 
from  her  presence.  "  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  by 
that?  "  She  fixed  her  grandson  with  her  needle-like  eyes. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Johnny,  "  you  mean  Jiiany  Jasons 
come  in  quest  of  her.  It's  a  fact." 

"  You  know  your  Shakespeare,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre, 
softening  slightly.  She  had  sunk  long  since,  sixty  years 
before,  the  actress  in  the  great  lady;  but  occasionally 
Johnny's  reproduction  of  her  youthful  talent  touched  her. 

"  That  was  not  all  I  meant,"  she  said,  "  but  it  enters 
into  it.  When  Shakespeare  talked  in  another  place  of 
golden  lads  and  girls,  he  meant  that  kind." 

"  Did  he  ? "  said  Johnny.  His  eyes  strayed  after 
Helena.  "  Perhaps  he  did." 

"  Do  you  admire  her  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ingestre. 

"  Rather !  "  said  Johnny,  with  false  warmth  —  very  well 
done. 

Unluckily,  his  grandmother  was  not  easy  to  deceive. 
Also,  she  was  an  incorrigible  gossip,  and  had  probably 
been  hearing  things.  During  the  pause,  she  took  up  her 
glass  to  examine  him.  This  was  not  necessary,  since  he 
was  close  to  her,  and  her  vision  quite  unimpaired :  but  she 
happened  to  know  he  disliked  it.  Consequently,  it  was 
good  for  him.  It  was  on  educational  principles  of  this 
sort,  that  Mrs.  Ingestre  and  her  daughter-in-law  dis- 
agreed. 

Having  made  John  change  color  and  glare  at  her,  as 
she  expected,  and  having  thought,  privately,  what  a  good- 
looking  boy  he  was,  the  dowager  proceeded. 

"Who's  the  cavalier?" 

"  He's  a  young  Auberon, —  one  of  the  same  set. 
Ursula  knows  the  family." 


196  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Respectable,  then.     Well-off  ?  " 

"  Eldest  son  of  a  general  in  our  Eastern  service,"  said 
Johnny.  "  Lakhs  of  rupees  behind  him,  and  shinning  up 
the  War  Office,  or  one  of  those  places,  fast." 

"  He  looked  presentable,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  Is  he 
engaged  to  her  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  have  heard,"  said  Johnny. 

"  If  he  is  not,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  "  her  mother  should 
not  let  him  walk  with  her,  in  public,  in  the  Park." 

"  We  passed  her  mother  a  minute  afterwards,"  said 
Johnny.  "  She  probably  had  Miss  Falkland  on  a  leash, 
if  we  had  seen." 

"  Don't  be  pert !  "  snapped  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  I  did  not 
observe  you  bow  to  the  mother,  John." 

"  You  did  not,  Grandmamma, —  because  I  don't  know 
her.  Ursula  does." 

"Isn't  it  the  same  thing?"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "In 
my  day,  a  man  was  on  bowing  terms  with  his  wife's  ac- 
quaintance. And  she  with  his." 

Johnny  thought  of  several  possible  answers  to  this, 
among  others  the  simple  one  of  telling  her  that  she  lied. 
But,  Miss  Falkland  being  by  this  time  out  of  sight,  he 
felt  too  dispirited  to  attempt  it;  so  he  only  lounged  on 
the  seat  with  his  head  on  his  hand,  profoundly  disliking 
his  circumstances. 

"  Sit  up !  "  said  Mrs.  Ingestre, —  so  sharply  that  he  did 
so.  "  How  long  have  you  known  that  girl  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  "  Johnny  nearly  said :  luckily  he 
did  not.  One  cannot  say  such  things  to  one's  grand- 
mother. The  mistake  is,  to  have  one  at  all.  "  About 
three  months,"  he  answered. 

"  She  has  an  uncommon  pretty  color,"  said  the  dowager 
grimly. 

"  Mean  that  was  my  fault?"  drawled  Johnny,  opening 
his  eyes  right  at  her, —  he  could  since  he  was  sitting  up. 

It  was  a  good  move,  and  shook  her  a  little :  but  nothing 
would  shake  her  off  the  scent.  "  You're  your  father's 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  197 

son,"  she  said,  more  grimly  than  ever,  "  but  you  needn't 
imagine  you  can  get  round  me.  You've  been  dangling 
after  that  girl." 

"  Dangling,"  Johnny  repeated,  debating  the  word.  His 
grandmother  was  always  taking  exception  to  his  words, 
so  occasionally  he  picked  out  one  of  hers.  At  least  it 
produced  a  pause  in  the  dialogue,  and  it  was  safe  to  annoy. 
Indeed,  Mrs.  Ingestre's  main  desire  was  to  box  his  ears 
when  he  did  it :  but  in  the  face  of  her  best  acquaintance 
in  the  Park,  the  desire  could  not  be  gratified.  So  she 
swallowed  her  wrath  and  went  on. 

"  Where  have  you  met  her,  eh  ?  " 

"  Most  places,"  said  Johnny,  bored.  "  I've  danced  with 
her  in  about  six  houses, —  is  that  dangling  ?  Miss  Falk- 
land dances  rather  decently,  so  we  haven't  talked 
much.  They  really  don't  leave  you  time  nowadays, —  do 
they?" 

This  was  really  a  happy  diversion.  The  picture  of  Mrs. 
Ingestre  attending  dances, —  modern  dances, —  was  so 
pert,  not  to  say  profane,  in  its  conception,  that  she  had  to 
abandon  her  role  of  inquisitor  forthwith,  and  put  John  in 
his  place.  She  also  made  a  note  of  telling  his  father 
that  his  home  education  had  not  been  sufficiently  attended 
to  between  the  ages  of  eleven  and  sixteen.  It  was  during 
those  years  of  growth,  according  to  Mrs.  Ingestre,  that, 
granted  a  parent  of  energy  and  spirit,  a  lasting  impression 
could  be  made. 

Johnny  listened  to  her  lecture  languidly,  storing  bits 
to  use  against  her  at  a  future  time.  He  wondered  at 
intervals  what  people  meant  by  talking  of  the  beauty  of 
age :  he  had  never  seen  a  sign  of  it  in  his  own  family. 
It  is  true,  he  was  thoroughly  out  of  temper,  because  the 
old  beast  had  snapped  at  Helena.  Also,  she  had  reduced 
his  own  spirits  to  a  minimum,  as  she  always  did :  an  hour 
of  her  company  was  enough  to  make  him  wish  he  had  not 
been  born.  There  was  something  unnatural  about  her, 
he  decided,  no  doubt  because,  in  the  strict  ways  of  nature, 


198  THE  ACCOLADE 

she  should  have  been  dead  long  since.  Long  dead  — 
Johnny's  eyes  widened  as  he  watched  the  dusty  trees  of 
the  Park  and  pondered  it.  She  was  like  a  vampire  nowa- 
days, living  on  the  life  of  others.  .  .  This  last  thought 
encouraged  him  so  much  that  he  survived  to  the  end  of 
the  afternoon  without  insulting  her  openly.  He  did  not 
want  to  do  that. 

As  for  Mrs.  Ingestre,  she  had  been  a  little  confused  by 
the  rapidity  and  versatility  of  his  accomplished  changes ; 
but  she  was  used  to  the  type  through  fifty  years'  hard 
experience,  and  though  confused,  she  was  not  contented. 
She  declined  obstinately  to  be  contented  with  John,  in 
the  matter  of  the  pretty  Falkland  girl ;  and  she  went  home 
to  tell  the  family  about  it. 

The  fact  that  Mrs.  Falkland,  on  the  same  occasion,  was 
contented  thoroughly,  may  indicate  the  differences  in 
parental  perception  that  exist. 

"  Who  was  that  stopped  to  speak  to  you,  dear?"  said 
Mrs.  Falkland,  when  her  young  pair  returned  to  her  side 
after  their  stroll.  Helena's  growing  friendship  for 
Quentin  was  one  of  the  anchors  to  which  Mrs.  Falkland 
clung  in  the  fretting  tide  of  youth's  uncertainties.  She 
always  liked  to  see  them  enter  on  a  discussion, —  that 
had  been  the  reason  of  the  stroll, —  even  when  they 
talked  about  things  she  did  not  understand.  So  she 
asked  the  question  with  a  benign  smile,  and  Helena  in- 
formed her. 

"Really?"  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  her  maternal  thoughts 
flitting  instantly  to  Harold.  "  We  had  just  been  remark- 
ing on  the  beautiful  horses, —  hadn't  we,  dear?" — to 
Harold. 

"  No,"  said  Harold,  accurate  but  unheeded. 

"  Had  you  met  her  before  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Falkland. 

"  No,"  said  Helena.  "  That  is,  she  had  not  met  me  be- 
fore, as  was  obvious.  I  knew  her  perfectly  well, —  she 
is  the  dreadful  old  lady,  the  deaf  one  that  sits  in  front 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  199 

of  all  the  concerts :  and  the  same  Mrs.  Shovell  was  read- 
ing the  program  to,  the  first  time  we  saw  her  at  Regent's 
Hall." 

"  Jove,  so  she  is,"  said  Harold. 

"Did  you  mention  that?"  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  looking 
Helena  anxiously  up  and  down,  to  be  sure  not  a  stitch 
was  out  of  place,  on  this  momentous  occasion.  She 
looked  particularly  brilliant,  and  happy  too. 

"  Good  gracious  no,  Mother  dear.  She  is  pulverizing. 
Even  Mr.  Auberon  was  frightened, —  yes,  you  were." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  pressed  her  mother. 

"  I  said  yes,  and  no,  and  thank  you,  and  good-by.  I 
only  hope  I  said  them  in  the  proper  places.  Mr.  Ingestre 
did  the  talking,  luckily, —  I  was  shaking  in  my  shoes.  .  .  . 
Oh  yes,"  said  Helena,  recollecting.  "  I  said  I  knew  Mrs. 
Shovell,  hoping  to  calm  her,  because  really  she  was  sweet 
to  her,  that  concert  day.  But  Mrs.  Ingestre  only  looked 
me  up  and  down,  and  sniffed." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  a  compliment,"  suggested  Quentin. 
"  She  was  comparing  you." 

"  Well,  I  only  hope  she  settled  to  like  me  finally,"  said 
Helena.  "  She  had  not  that  appearance." 

"  I  should  not  wonder,  now,  if  we  get  a  card,"  said 
Mrs.  Falkland  thoughtfully.  Helena  was  now  on  bowing 
terms  with  the  father  and  grandmother,  and  terms  per- 
haps a  little  beyond  bowing  with  the  son.  She  herself 
saw  the  son's  wife  pretty  constantly.  There  really  only 
remained  the  father's  wife,  Mr.  John's  own  mother;  and 
Mrs.  Falkland  heard  on  all  hands  that  she  hardly  counted, 
since  she  was  always  ill. 

She  little  knew  how  much  the  remaining  Mrs.  Ingestre 
of  the  three  counted  in  the  case.  Agatha  had,  sooner  or 
later,  the  confidence  of  everybody,  including  her  son. 

Everyone  but  Ursula,  that  is.  No  art,  or  at  least  no 
art  of  hers,  could  extract  confidence  from  Ursula. 
Agatha  had  alienated  Ursula,  not  long  after  her  marriage, 


200  THE  ACCOLADE 

by  a  bit  of  very  sage  maternal  advice,  well-considered  in 
advance,  cleverly  and  clearly  administered.  A  little  too 
clearly,  as  it  proved.  Ursula  had  been  desperately  of- 
fended at  the  time,  and  as  usual,  instead  of  speaking  her 
sentiments  either  to  his  mother  or  John,  had  let  the 
grudge  rankle,  and  shut  her  lips.  Since  the  difference 
concerned  himself,  Johnny  had  never  been  able  to  track 
its  origin.  His  mother  was  plain-spoken,  as  he  knew, 
but  he  could  not  suppose  she  intended  insult  to  Ursula: 
and  since  it  was  his  mother,  of  the  two,  who  steadily  as- 
sured him  she  had  been  in  the  wrong,  he  was  the  more 
convinced  of  it.  Being  mightily  bored  with  the  quarrel, 
when  it  had  lasted  a  couple  of  years,  he  conveyed  to 
Ursula  that,  whatever  it  was,  it  would  be  graceful  in 
her,  as  the  younger  and  stronger  woman,  to  make  peace. 
Ursula  replied  that  there  were  some  things  that  women 
never  forgive,  and  refrained,  with  a  righteous  and  visible 
effort,  from  further  explanation. 

Now,  on  her  arrival  from  the  country,  where  she  had 
been  passing  the  spring  in  peace,  Agatha  noted  once  more 
the  signs  of  disruption  in  her  turbulent  household,  and 
began,  from  her  couch  in  the  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room,  which  she  seldom  left  in  these  days,  to  gather  in 
the  evidence,  quietly. 

She  suffered  her  mother-in-law's  unvarnished  opin- 
ions, and  accepted  the  assurance  that,  had  she  not  pam- 
pered that  boy  persistently  through  his  childhood,  they 
would  not  have  these  anxieties  about  him  now.  Agatha, 
who  laid  the  whole  trouble  of  Johnny,  with  obvious  jus- 
tice, to  his  father's  over-rigorous  discipline  in  early  man- 
hood, silently  accepted  the  reproaches.  She  did  not  ar- 
gue with  the  old  lady  often,  unless  Johnny  were  there  as 
her  spokesman :  she  had  neither  the  vivacity  requisite, 
nor  the  voice.  She  let  her  talk,  and  listened  with  atten- 
tion, for  she  had  immense  and  varied  experience,  and 
was  very  acute.  It  was  Agatha's  duty,  she  learnt,  for 
Ursula's  sake,  to  let  Helena's  parents  know  the  state  of 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  201 

things.  The  girl  was  obviously  beautiful  enough  to  turn 
a  stronger  head  than  John's,  and  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost  in  consequence.  That  the  parents  were  rank  idiots 
not  to  see,  on  their  own  account,  was  passingly  implied, 
but  Mrs.  Ingestre  made  allowances  for  them.  Every- 
body knew  how  stupid  Army  people  were,  and  it  was 
likely  that,  flattered  by  the  connection,  their  eyes  were 
blinded.  As  a  lesson  to  them,  Mrs.  Ingestre  would  have 
been  tempted  to  let  things  take  their  natural  course ;  but 
little  Ursula  was  a  good  girl,  and  her  age  barely  three- 
and-thirty, —  quite  a  child, —  and  John,  also  a  child,  but 
by  no  means  a  good  one,  might  be  brought  to  see  his  duty 
still,  if  his  mother  only  kept  her  place,  and  let  his  father 
deal  with  him,  as  was  suitable.  Johnny's  mother  smiled 
at  the  ancient  phrase,  but  was  careful  to  make  no  com- 
mentary. 

She  had  her  husband  also,  not  once,  but  many  times, 
snapping  at  all  suggestions,  and  vacillating  between  two 
views.  Now  contemptuous  because,  with  "  the  lad,"  such 
things  were  smoke  without  fire,  invariably :  now  resentful 
because,  should  the  idea  take  hold  of  him,  he  could  not 
be  trusted  to  keep  within  decent  bounds.  The  latter, 
since  he  returned  to  it,  caused  him  the  more  genuine 
anxiety.  He  admitted,  shadowing  his  mother's  attitude, 
that  Johnny's  relations  with  his  wife  were  at  a  "  ticklish  " 
stage ;  and  the  mere  fact  of  this  little  red-haired  girl's 
existence,  within  the  four-mile  radius,  might  precipitate 
matters,  alienate  the  couple  beyond  redemption,  and  de- 
prive the  family  of  all  hope  of  the  longed-for  heir. 

Agatha  suffered  less  willingly  certain  dear  friends  of 
Ursula's,  who  made  their  moan  to  her,  very  delicately, 
about  her  patience,  her  forbearance,  and  her  increasingly 
lonely  life ;  how  she  gave  her  time  and  devotion  more  and 
more  to  useful  works,  and  how  women's  clubs  and  socie- 
ties, in  all  directions,  blessed  her  name. 

"  Did  she  see  no  men  ? "  was  Agatha's  rather  testy 
query,  having  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  sort :  and  so  learnt 


202  THE  ACCOLADE 

that  Ursula  had  made  a  new  friend,  or  rather  remade 
an  old  one,  in  Mr.  Auberon, —  quite  a  young  man,  twenty- 
four  at  most. 

"  Bother,"  thought  Agatha  privately,  "  that's  no  good." 
She  would  have  thought  better  of  Ursula  if  she  had 
flirted  openly,  to  retaliate  on  John.  That  would  have 
shown  not  only  spirit,  but  policy.  But  the  "  acolyte " 
system  annoyed  her,  as  did  all  half-hearted  courses. 
Agatha  had  instinctively  placed  her  daughter-in-law  as  a 
dabbler,  even  in  virtue,  long  before. 

She  had  Mrs.  Shovell  too,  once,  for  the  hour  before 
dinner,  her  most  peaceful  period.  She  compared  notes 
with  her  youlig  cousin  at  leisure,  and  found,  not  for  the 
first  time,  their  opinions  identical  upon  Ursula  and  John. 
They  agreed  that  it  all  depended  on  the  girl,  and  the  girl 
being  immature,  though  Violet  spoke  warmly  for  her  dis- 
position, could  not  be  counted  upon.  Violet  herself  had 
no  idea  of  Helena's  own  sentiments, — "  except  that  she 
loves  to  be  in  his  company,"  she  added.  "  But  then  so 
do  you,  and  so  do  several  other  ladies,  Cousin  Agatha." 

They  agreed  further  that  warning  the  Falklands  was 
equally  undignified  and  futile:  and  trying  to  sermonize 
John,  at  the  present  stage,  only  one  degree  less  rash  than 
trying  to  terrorize  him. 

"  You  don't  think  anyone  has  attempted  that  ? "  said 
Agatha  anxiously,  well  knowing  who  "  anyone  "  would 
be.  "  Very  well,  my  dear :  we  can  get  no  further.  Go, 
for  goodness'  sake,  and  play  me  something  really  ancient 
and  obvious,  to  rest  my  brain,  until  the  bell." 

So  Violet  played,  her  frequent  office  in  that  house :  and 
peace  reigned  in  Agatha's  world  till  seven  o'clock,  when 
all  the  disputant  branches  of  the  Ingestre  family,  includ- 
ing the  defaulting  heir,  his  grandmother,  his  father,  one 
of  his  plain  aunts,  and  his  wife,  drifted  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, one  by  one,  and  sat  down  under  the  spell  of 
the  ancient  and  obvious  music,  "  their  savage  eyes  turned 
to  a  modest  gaze,"  and  their  behavior,  for  the  time  be- 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  203 

ing,  irreproachable.  They  looked  quite  pleasant,  even 
Ursula :  and  the  resemblance  between  Johnny,  his  father, 
and  his  grandmother,  under  this  calming  influence,  struck 
Agatha  forcibly.  The  men's  attitude  was  even  identical, 
to  a  finger,  unconsciously. 

"  She  must  have  worked  at  that  a  bit,"  Ursula  confided 
suddenly  to  her  husband,  who  was  nearest. 

"Just  as  if  her  little  hands  were  centipedes,"  agreed 
Johnny  dreamily :  and  his  father,  sitting  next  beyond  him, 
laughed. 

Within  ten  minutes  of  the  closing  of  the  piano,  of 
course,  the  millennium  ceased:  and  soon  they  were  all 
snapping  again,  quite  comfortably:  but  the  truce  was 
worth  a  remark  in  passing.  Mrs.  Shovell  herself  took 
no  further  part  in  the  controversy ;  for  having  been  in- 
formed by  the  eldest  Mrs.  Ingestre  that  she  could  not 
have  kept  up  her  execution  to  that  point  without  neg- 
lecting her  home  duties :  and  by  the  youngest  Mrs. 
Ingestre  that  Scarlatti,  being  delicate  and  distinguished 
and  a  few  other  things,  was  not  really  suited  to  her  style : 
she  embraced  the  real  and  only  Mrs.  Ingestre  in  her  re- 
tired corner,  and  went  home  to  her  husband. 

Last,  and  not  least,  his  mother  had  John.  He  came  to 
her  that  same  evening  before  he  left,  in  her  own  room 
upstairs :  having  been,  as  he  passingly  mentioned,  kicked 
out  below. 

"  From  which  department  ?  "  said  Agatha. 

"  Father's.  The  drawing-room  is  placid  temporarily, 
since  Granny  is  asleep.  Ursula  is  learning  a  new  crochet 
stitch,"  added  Johnny,  "  and  can't  be  disturbed.  There 
really  seems  nobody  left,  to  speak  of,  Mother." 

"  Sit  down,  dear,"  said  Agatha.  "  Smoke  if  you  want 
to,  and  tell  me  what  your  father  said." 

"  I  haven't  an  idea,"  said  Johnny,  sitting  down.  "  I 
can't  listen  to  genealogies  for  ever.  And  ours  is  a  par- 
ticularly tricky  one,  to  judge  by  the  way  Father  swore  in 


204  THE  ACCOLADE 

reproducing  it.  If  I  was  a  fishmonger  or  a  —  a  mis- 
sionary," said  Johnny,  looking  at  the  ceiling,  "  I  might  be 
allowed  to  drink  my  claret  after  dinner  in  peace.  As  it 
is,  I've  had  a  hell  of  an  evening.  Sorry,  Mother, —  the 
dinner  was  good." 

"  I'm  glad  the  dinner  was  good,"  said  Agatha. 

"  The  one  thing  that  interested  me,"  said  Johnny,  turn- 
ing sidelong  in  his  chair,  which  proved  a  good  one, —  and 
realizing,  as  he  did  so,  its  extreme  possibilities  of  com- 
fort, with  no  sacrifice  of  grace, — "  was,  that  if  I  choose 
to  wreck  —  I  think  that's  the  word  —  my  improbable 
son's  chances  on  the  estates,  and  my  father's  ideals  of 
virtuous  living  by  the  way, —  sorry,  Mother, —  Shovell's 
probable  son  comes  into  the  running.  Did  you  know 
that?" 

"  No,"  said  Agatha.     "  Nor  do  they,  certainly." 

"  Of  course  it's  the  elder  branch, —  but  I'd  no  idea  the 
last  two  generations  had  played  the  fool  to  that  extent, 
all  the  same.  I'd  never  thought  it  out.  I  shall  certainly 
outlive  —  always  granted  I  don't  blow  my  brains  out  — 
the  two  excellent  persons  Father  mentioned, —  can't  think 
why  excellence  and  ill-health  always  go  together  — 
beastly  sorry,  Mother,  I  don't  mean  you.  There  are 
nothing  but  bad  lives  in  all  directions, —  and  Felicia's 
son,  the  only  one  strong  enough  to  outlive  me,  is  illegiti- 
mate. That's  a  jolly  state  of  things  for  Father  to  con- 
template among  the  wine-glasses,  isn't  it,  Mother?" 

"  He  is  very  unhappy  about  you,"  said  Agatha. 

"  No  —  you  are,"  said  Johnny.  "  Father's  unhappy 
about  the  property.  You're  very  unhappy  about  me, 
aren't  you,  Mother?"  ' 

"  Very,  my  dear, —  have  been  for  long." 

"  Aren't  you  more,  lately,  like  the  rest  of  them  ? 
Aren't  you  ?  That's  really  very  clever  of  you  not  to  be." 

"Why?"  said  Agatha,  watching  him. 

"  Why  d'you  think  ?     Because  I'm  happy,  for  the  first 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  205 

time  in  my  life.  I'm  beginning  —  just  beginning  —  to 
see  what  happiness  means." 

She  said  nothing,  but  she  saw  the  strange  light  in  his 
face,  the  same,  doubtless,  that  Violet  had  seen ;  then,  and 
later,  as  he  paced  smoking  about  the  room.  She  could 
see  with  the  inner  eye,  the  mother's,  his  life  gathering 
up,  centering  round  a  purpose  again.  He  was  charging 
himself,  as  he  had  charged  once  before,  to  blast  all  ob- 
stacles, from  man  or  god,  to  his  heart's  desire.  He  had 
always  done  that,  from  childhood :  staked  the  whole  of 
himself  in  cases  where  the  commoner  mind  stakes  half: 
—  and  suffered  in  proportion  when  deprived  of  his 
dream. 

"  It's  some  way  off,"  he  observed  to  himself,  "  but  I  see 
the  color  of 'it.  Do  you  know  the  color  of  happiness, 
Mother  ?  Granny  told  me  once, —  Shakespeare  mentions 
it,—  it's  gold." 

"  And  how  much  of  other  people's  gold  is  worth  spend- 
ing to  get  yours  ?  "  said  Agatha. 

"That's  the  point,"  he  agreed.  "That's  what  I'm 
wondering  all  the  time.  Not  all  the  time,"  he  corrected, 
"  now  and  then.  It'd  be  rotten  waste  to  wonder  all  the 
time." 

"  Not  just  now,  for  instance."  She  smiled  as  he 
glanced  round  to  her.  "  Come  here,  John." 

"  Are  you  going  to  scold  me?  "  he  enquired,  smiling  too  ; 
as  confident  in  his  power  over  her,  as  he  had  been  at  ten 
years  old.  He  came  to  be  scolded,  as  he  had  then,  sure 
of  his  ultimate  victory,  however  vexed  she  was. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  entering  his  mood,  as  he  knelt  down 
by  her.  "  Will  you  show  her  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes, —  I  will,"  said  Johnny.  "  She  doesn't  think 
about  me,  you  know,"  he  added  quickly.  "  I  rather  think 
she's  got  another  kind  of  man.  She's  a  little  girl, 
Mother, —  sort  you'd  like.  Not  clever,  you  know,  like 
Violet, —  don't  you  go  saying  clever  things." 


206  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  I  won't,"  promised  Agatha.  He  had  told  her  just  in 
this  manner,  and  this  voice,  about  his  first  love,  when  he 
was  sixteen. 

"  Likely  my  dear  friends  tell  her  things  about  me," 
murmured  Johnny.  "  Friends  are  safe  for  that.  Mind 
you  don't  let  on  too  much  when  you  talk  to  her, —  d'you 
hear?" 

"  I'll  be  careful,"  said  Agatha.  "  There  would  not  be 
much,  anyhow,  that  I  could  find  to  say." 

"Wouldn't  there?  Mean  you  wouldn't  take  away  my 
character  —  give  me  away  when  I  wasn't  looking? 
Sure?" 

He  was  wielding  her,  of  course,  disgracefully;  with 
that  old  confidence,  and  this  new  power  to  help,  he  could 
almost  lead  her  whither  he  would.  Not  quite,  for  the 
oldest  power  of  all  was  hers. 

"  I'm  sure  at  least  she's  very  lovely,"  she  said.  "  And 
I  rather  suspect  she's  good." 

"  Hopelessly  good,"  said  Johnny  instantly.  "  Church, 
and  all  that.  She'll  go  to  heaven  with  Ursula,  and  so  on. 
Not  a  chance  for  me  anywhere, —  not  even  beyond  the 
grave." 

He  did  not  think  it,  though:  he  had  a  strong  inborn 
faith  in  his  chances,  she  could  see  by  his  eyes.  And  of 
course  he  wanted  her  to  agree  with  him,  it  was  her  busi- 
ness: but  Agatha  did  not  agree.  She  waited  instead, 
guarding  his  head  close  to  her  with  her  thin  hand;  not 
caressing,  she  was  not  a  woman  who  caressed.  She  had 
defended  him,  at  her  own  risk,  often:  and  would  so  de- 
fend him,  at  the  worst,  to  the  end. 

"  Why  don't  you  talk,  Mother  ? "  he  said  presently, 
when  he  had  talked  a  good  deal,  in  the  vein. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  what  you  said.  Do  you  think  in 
your  sober  mind,  John,  that  Ursula  is  good  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  do."  He  looked  at  her  suspiciously. 
"  Ursula's  the  virtuous  woman,  the  very  type.  Where 
are  you  getting  to,  Mother?" 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  207 

"  Not  so  very  far,  I  think.  Is  Ursula  so  remote  from 
the  point?'* 

Johnny  flushed.  "  She's  not  good  enough  to  release 
me,"  he  said  restlessly.  "  She'd  never  let  me  go.  That's 
the  only  way  Ursula's  goodness  can  come  into  it,  that  I 
can  see.  She'd  cling  like  a  leech  —  bleeding  me." 

He  had  a  premonitory  shudder:  and  again,  Agatha 
saw  it  through  his  eyes.  She  had  also,  in  her  long  pon- 
dering for  him,  reached  this  speculation,  if  not  the  image 
he  used, —  that  was  overdone.  But  that  Ursula's  ex- 
cellently feminine  methods  were  actual  torment  to  him, 
she  had  never  doubted.  Ursula  weighed  upon  him  de- 
liberately, with  her  whole  weight, —  had  done  so  from 
the  first.  Silent  and  insatiable  —  not  un-leech-like 
really  —  she  laid  claim  to  every  part  of  him,  body  and 
brain,  while  guarding  her  aloof  cool  manner.  Granted 
Johnny,  that  was  very  clever,  thought  Agatha, —  but  she 
despised  it.  The  posture  claimed  all,  and  risked  noth- 
ing.—  Ursula  at  once  threatened  him  by  it,  and  saved 
herself, —  the  franker  fighting  breed  of  womanhood  re- 
volted instinctively. 

"  You're  wild,"  she  said  quietly.  "  It's  not  all 
mothers  would  hear  such  things.  Suppose  I  kicked  you 
out  as  well." 

"  You  wouldn't.    You  never  would,"  he  said. 

"  Not  if  you  offended  me?  " 

"  Offended  ?  "     He  was  astonished. 

"  I'm  a  wife  as  well  as  a  mother,  Johnny.  So  I  must 
feel  for  her." 

"  But  —  it's  not  the  same,"  argued  Johnny.  "  It's 
not, —  shut  up." 

"  Why  not?  Do  you  think  I  was  never  anxious,  when 
I  was  Ursula's  age  ?  " 

"  Oh, —  dash  it,  Mother !  "  He  protested,  drawing  off 
from  her.  He  was  almost  shocked. 

"  It's  to  the  point.  And  I  had  you  to  console  me, 
remember  that.  There  have  been  times  when  I've  won- 


208  THE  ACCOLADE 

dered  what  I  should  do  without  you,  I  could  always  turn 
to  you.  When  Ursula  begins  to  look 

She  was  allowed  to  get  no  further,  for  he  seized 
and  silenced  her  forcibly.  He  had  flushed  and  changed 
countenance  while  she  was  speaking.  Now  he  had 
enough. 

"  I'm  going,"  he  said  roughly,  rising.  "  I  didn't  bargain 

for  this.  As  if  I  hadn't  enough  —  without "  He 

stared,  not  at,  but  round  his  mother,  withering  her  with 
his  haughtiest  look.  Agatha  was  prepared  for  this  stage 
as  well:  he  could  never  be  drawn  more  than  a  certain 
distance.  She  shot  her  last  shaft  serenely  after  him. 

"  You're  just  like  your  father  at  this  minute,  dear." 

Johnny,  muttering  something  disrespectful  to  both, 
turned  his  shoulder,  and  reached  the  door.  "  You're  giv- 
ing Father  away,"  he  pointed  out  from  this  distance, 
"  when  you  draw  morals  like  that.  I  never  cared  for 
morals  much, —  so  it's  hardly  worth  risking." 

"Risking?  Risking  what?"  No  answer.  "Disloy- 
alty ?  My  splendid  son !  "  She  laughed  wearily.  "  Ur- 
sula would  never  be  so  disloyal  to  you,"  she  said. 

He  bit  his  lip, —  he  was  not  so  sure  of  it.  It  would 
have  been  convenient  to  assert  that  his  wife  would  never 
venture  so  far  within  his  domain,  as  his  mother  had  ven- 
tured in  hers,  but  he  was  cut  off  that  resource  as  well. 
His  mother  was  teasing  him  terribly, —  meant  to  tease, 
what  was  worse.  She  meant  to  take  the  breeze  out  of 
his  swelling  sails, —  put  him  out  in  the  first  fine  exalta- 
tion of  this  new  campaign.  It  was  her  privilege  to  do 
so,  since  he  could  not  quarrel  with  her.  She  watched 
him,  attentive,  unsmiling,  as  he  stood  by  the  door :  unable 
of  course  to  leave  her,  though  he  wished  to,  trying  al- 
most visibly  to  shake  off  those  unpleasant  vlarts  she  had 
planted.  But  he  could  not  recover  his  contentment:  the 
moment  of  greatest  glory  was  gone. 

He  offered  her  good-night,  finally,  in  the  same  brusque 
overbearing  fashion, —  just  like  his  father,  with  a  differ- 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  209 

ence :  the  difference  she  loved.  She  was  sure  by  his  looks 
that  he  was  still  at  war  internally,  she  had  given  him 
at  least  to  think.  She  had  done  wrong  to  stir  such  trou- 
blesome preoccupations  naturally.  Her  behavior  was  dis- 
appointing, and  he  let  her  see  it ;  but  he  did  not  reproach 
her  further.  He  even  condescended  to  pity  her,  as  she 
lay  before  him,  fragile  and  worn. 

"  Poor  Mother,"  he  said. 

Agatha  said  — "  Dear  boy,"  when  she  kissed  him :  she 
knew  she  must  not  call  him  poor,  though  her  spirit  was 
indignant,  yearning  over  him,  all  the  time.  "  I've  been 
taking  advantage,  haven't  I  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny  with  decision.  The  drawback  to 
having  your  mother  for  a  friend  is  that  she  does  take 
advantage :  and  you  cannot  say  the  expressive,  full-blown 
things  to  her  that  you  can  to  other  real  friends  when  they 
so  behave ;  above  all  to  a  mother  such  as  this,  with  a  fatal 
hand  grasping  her  that  no  vigorous  young  strength  can 
snatch  away. 

"  Have  I  been  beastly  to  you  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Made  you 
tired?" 

"  No,"  she  said  in  her  weak  tone,  as  she  held  him  fast, 
"  you  never  time  me  as  others  do.  One  thing  only, — 
never  talk  of  killing  yourself,  even  in  jest,  John.  That 
is  the  one  thing  your  mother  cannot  bear." 

"  All  right,"  he  said  seriously.  "  But  you  needn't 
bother, —  you  can  be  pretty  sure  I  never  would.  I'm 
jolly  theatrical  —  and  flashy  —  and  common — Father 
used  all  those  words  to-night :  but  the  last  act  won't  finish 
like  that.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  I  was  found  in  slippers 
in  the  last  act,  wretched  as  they  make  'em,  nursing  the 
estate.  .  .  .  I'll  try  not  to  run  a  dinner-knife  into  Father 
either,"  said  Johnny  as  an  after-thought,  "  but  that's 
harder  to  say.  He  ought  to  be  more  careful  with  the 
words  he  chooses,  when  knives  are  lying  about.  I'm  not 
common,  Mother,  am  I  ?  " 

He  concentrated  the  whole  of  his  wiles  upon  her  with- 


210  THE  ACCOLADE 

out  warning, —  he  had  been  flirting  his  finest  through  the 
greater  part  of  this  interview. 

"  No  indeed,"  laughed  Agatha.  "  You'd  be  far  less 
anxiety  to  us  all  if  you  were.  There  now,"  she  added, 
after  a  little  nonsense.  "  I  hear  your  father,  and  Ursula 
will  be  waiting.  Better  go." 


in 

It  was  as  well  Agatha  spoke  while  she  could,  for  her 
usual  fate  intervened,  and  she  was  finally  debarred  from 
doing  more.  Agatha  was  not  fated  ever  to  behold  the 
beautiful  "  golden  girl "  of  her  son's  passionate  dream. 
The  day  Helena  and  her  mother  passed  her  threshold  for 
the  first  time,  she  was  incapable  of  talking  to  the  girl,  of 
looking  at  her  even.  Ursula,  as  often  before,  was  sum- 
moned to  do  the  honors  in  her  place. 

Ursula,  on  these  frequent,  increasingly  frequent,  oc- 
casions, rose  to  her  part  in  admirable  style.  Indeed, 
many  good  critics  compared  her  favorably,  in  manners 
and  social  deportment,  with  her  mother-in-law.  Agatha 
was  accounted  "  original "  and  somewhat  brusque.  She 
showed  her  preferences  markedly,  and  could  not  tolerate 
certain  types  at  all.  Ursula  was  equable  and  gracious 
to  all  alike,  and  disturbed  nobody  by  brilliant  or  biting 
observations.  She  looked  what  she  was,  a  handsome 
and  agreeable  young  woman,  well-trained  on  the  right 
lines,  sure  of  herself,  and  thoroughly  competent  in  her 
part.  She  had,  as  recognized  hostess,  a  little  pedestal 
that  suited  her,  from  which  she  could  look  down  on  all 
rivals.  This  added  dignity  soothed  away  her  habitual 
sense  of  grievance,  temporarily:  and  her  father-in-law, 
as  ever  in  front  of  the  world,  treated  her  with  marked 
attention  and  deference,  emphasizing  her  position  to  all. 

She  crushed  Helena  easily.  The  girl,  natural  and  gen- 
tle, could  not  stand  before  her  pose,  the  well-chosen 
elaboration  of  her  appearance,  the  well-weighed  con- 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  211 

descension  of  her  address.  When  it  came  to  assumption, 
Helena  was  nowhere  beside  Ursula,  as  she  proved.  Nor 
could  John,  in  his  father's  presence,  and  his  father's 
house,  venture  to  outstep  the  prescribed  limitations.  On 
these  premises,  Johnny  found  himself  caught  in  the  toils 
of  tradition  inevitably,  and  designated,  do  what  he  would, 
as  a  prince  beside  the  throne.  His  father  carried  that 
atmosphere  about  with  him,  and  under  the  eye  of  that 
inner  ring,  that  better-than-aristocfatic  society  which  was 
his  father's  world,  it  was  useless  to  ignore  it,  for  all  his 
internal  chafing.  Thus  unfairly  was  he  entrapped  to- 
day. He  dared  not  even  look  at  his  young  divinity  too 
markedly:  and  she  was  lovelier  than  usual,  in  creamy 
white  with  a  black  hat,  like  the  richest  of  the  summer 
lilies  with  which  Agatha  had  filled  the  corners  of  the 
staircase, —  the  kind  that  wear  gold-dust  on  their  ivory 
leaves.  Wherever  she  moved,  she  stood  in  a  gold  mist 
for  him,  as  though  the  same  beam  clung  to  her  which, 
creeping  through  the  narrow  windows  of  his  father's  hall, 
had  picked  her  out  for  its  blessing  when  she  first  came  in. 
She  drew  all  eyes, —  and  his  alone  must  not  follow  her. 
It  was  infuriating,  almost  as  much  so  as  when  he  had  had 
to  neglect  her  for  Jill  before. 

"  Mr.  Ingestre  is  a  very  fine  gentleman,  isn't  he  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Falkland,  when  Helena,  who  had  strayed  to  greet  a 
few  friends  on  entering,  returned  to  her  side. 

"  Yes,"  said  Helena.     "  Oh  —  which  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yours,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  innocently. 

Mrs.  Falkland  had  been  impressed  by  Johnny,  quite 
unintentionally  on  his  part.  Happening  to  be  at  Ursula's 
elbow  when  Mrs.  Falkland  reached  her  side,  he  could  not 
avoid  the  long-delayed  introduction.  The  new  arrival 
was  handed  to  him,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  and, 
duty-bound,  he  took  her  on  for  ten  minutes,  being  one 
of  the  few  strangers  in  the  house.  His  thoughts  were 
exclusively  occupied,  during  the  period  of  his  dialogue, 
by  the  strict  necessity  of  watching  for  his  mother's  doc- 


212  THE  ACCOLADE 

tor  on  the  staircase,  and  the  savage  determination  to  out- 
wit and  forestall  his  father  in  the  ensuing  interview.  It 
was  his  once  chance,  since  otherwise  his  father  would 
never  let  him  know  the  things  he  wanted.  His  father, 
twenty  feet  off,  was  contemplating  the  same  thing, —  that 
is,  outwitting  and  defeating  Johnny.  Father  and  son 
were  each  entertaining  a  woman ;  and  the  occasional  low- 
ering glances  cast  at  one  another  across  the  heads  of  the 
indifferent  who  divided  them,  would  have  suggested  at 
once  to  anyone  who  knew  them,  something  of  the  state 
of  things.  Eventually  Johnny  —  having  the  older  and 
less  attractive  woman  in  charge  —  scored,  dodged  round 
the  staircase  head,  and  captured  the  doctor;  the  while 
Mrs.  Falkland  remained  sublimely  impervious,  alike  to 
the  situation  and  to  the  by-play. 

Real  manners,  she  explained  to  Helena, —  proud,  as  one 
would  expect,  but  attentive  —  entertaining  —  quite  above 
the  average  —  and  matching  his  wife's  style  so  remark- 
ably. Finding  Helena  had  no  response  to  her  panegy- 
ric, Mrs.  Falkland  added  that  certainly  his  eyebrows 
looked  bad-tempered,  more  so  than  his  father's  —  who 
had  such  a  beautiful  smile.  Helena,  at  that,  was  moved 
to  speak,  the  color  dawning  in  her  face. 

"  They  are  anxious,  I  think,"  said  Helena.  "  His 
mother  is  worse  again,  Lord  Bering  says." 

"  Which  is  Lord  Bering  ? "  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  hap- 
pily diverted. 

"  Don't  you  know  him,  Mother  dear?"  said  Helena. 

"Lord, —  don't  you  know  him?"  said  Harold. 

"  No,"  said  their  mother,  with  firmness,  "  and  I  wish 
to,  if  you  please." 

She  addressed  herself  to  Helena,  since  Harold,  in  such 
a  case,  was  useless.  Mrs.  Falkland,  needless  to  say,  had 
arrived  at  this  "  fashionable  "  stronghold  full-armed  for 
the  conflict.  If  Helena,  in  her  easy  passage  past  its  de- 
fenses, picked  up  an  earl,  it  was  Mrs.  Falkland's  simple 
duty  to  know  him,  and  at  once.  She  could  not  have 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  213 

Helena  knowing  earls  —  and  young  earls  —  at  nineteen, 
all  alone:  it  was  ridiculous.  As  it  was,  the  girl  was 
constantly  getting  what  Harold  mischievously  called 
"  offside  "  in  the  matter  of  introductions,  but  in  case  of  a 
Lord  Dering  it  was  not  to  be  tolerated.  So,  having 
scaled  Johnny  to  her  satisfaction,  Mrs.  Falkland, 
maneuvering  in  capable  style,  surrounded  and  captured 
Bertram, —  who  had  succeeded  his  grandfather  and  taken 
a  wife  in  the  same  year,  profoundly  deploring  both  neces- 
sities. After  these  feats,  Mrs.  Falkland  took  breath, 
rested  on  her  laurels,  and  told  Harold  to  get  her  a  cup  of 
tea. 

Helena,  having  settled  her  mother  in  a  comfortable 
corner,  wandered,  free  once  more.  It  was  a  beautiful 
house,  smaller  than  the  Falkland  mansion  but  better- 
designed,  and  arranged  with  a  kind  of  graceful  austerity, 
like  everything  Agatha's  hand  had  ever  touched.  A 
woman's  house  conveys  her  character  to  a  woman's  eye. 
Helena,  the  little  outsider,  looked  about  her,  and  shyly 
took  it  in.  She  had  so  often  wondered  about  his  mother, 
as  anyone  must,  knowing  him.  She  had  looked  forward 
to  the  meeting,  with  an  unconscious  faith  in  such  a 
mother's  piloting, —  but  it  was  not  to  be.  Instead,  she 
fell  back  on  her  own  resources,  looked  at  the  flowers  and 
the  furniture,  and  speculated,  dreamed.  Without,  one 
of  the  astonishingly  hot  days  of  that  season  glared  brass- 
ily  across  London :  within  all  was  freshness,  cordial  com- 
posure, shadowed  ease.  No  wonder  he  loved  her,  thought 
Helena,  and  looked  absent  and  strained  like  that  when  she 
was  suffering. 

She  speculated  a  little  about  her  society  too,  though  not 
much :  she  was  just  conscious  of  a  sense  of  adventure, 
discovery, —  those  senses  beloved  of  youth, —  concerning 
them.  Most  of  the  people  present  she  had  heard  of,  or 
watched  in  the  distance,  but  not  met  face  to  face.  Helena 
had  little  of  her  mother's  social  enterprise,  and  cared 
nothing  for  securing  attention, —  having  already  more 


214  THE  ACCOLADE 

than  she  could  do  with, —  but  her  circumstances  amused 
her. 

She  fell  into  the  hands,  first,  of  her  host,  who  took  her 
in  charge  in  a  flattering  manner  of  ceremony,  and  intro- 
duced her  to  all  the  right  people,  one  by  one;  and  then 
into  the  hands  of  young  Mr.  Shovell,  Violet's  husband, 
who  introduced  her  to  all  the  amusing  people,  right  or 
wrong, —  he  seemed  as  indifferent  as  Helena.  Smiling 
faces,  on  all  sides,  were  turned  on  the  little  beauty :  men 
and  women  alike  spared  her  special  notice  and  regard, 
and  she  made  several  new  conquests  of  whose  worth  she 
was  not  the  least  aware,  since  her  thoughts  were  turned 
upon  other  things.  The  society  figures  formed  and 
melted  about  her:  the  game  played  itself  decorously,  for 
quite  a  time:  but  she  was  increasingly  conscious  of  dis- 
illusion, hope  deferred,  glory  staled,  something  wanting 
to  an  occasion  upon  which  she  had  unaware  built  much, 
round  which  she  had  long  been  weaving  dreams. 

Then,  just  as  she  was  resigning  herself  to  departure 
and  disappointment,  in  a  retired  corner  of  the  hall, 
she  found  John  at  her  elbow,  and  heard,  with  an  inner 
start  of  rapture,  his  pleasant  voice. 

"  My  mother  sends  her  regrets  to  you  specially,  Miss 
Falkland,"  said  Johnny.  "  She  is  very  anxious  to  know 
you,  she  says." 

"  She  is  very  good,"  said  Helena,  glowing  in  her  pretty 
way.  She  could  never  speak  a  commonplace  as  others 
did,  he  had  noticed,  she  felt  the  commonest  things  too 
much.  Only  —  a  dozen  watchful  eyes  saw  her  blush  and 
gleam  in  talking  to  him,  which  is  what  in  society  is  called 
"  unfortunate." 

"  Coming  to  the  concert  to-morrow  night?"  said  John, 
resting  a  careless  hand  against  the  staircase  rail  to  screen 
her. 

"  No,"  said  Helena.  "  I  can't  afford  any  more  con- 
certs." 

"Afford?"    said    Johnny,    astonished.     "Come    with 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  215 

me."  An  interval.  "  Perhaps  you  can't  afford  that 
either.  I  assure  you,  Miss  Falkland,  at  a  symphony  con- 
cert, butter  wouldn't  melt  in  my  mouth.  Ask  my  cousin." 
Pause  again.  "  I  simply  say  '  how  pretty '  at  intervals." 
Pause  once  more,  Helena  smiling-,  her  head  averted. 
"  I'd  say  it  oftener  if  you  came,"  said  Johnny,  looking 
at  the  dimple  in  her  cheek.  "  You  see,  I'm  going  with 
Grandmamma, —  who's  not." 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  impossible,"  said  Helena  firmly,  still 
looking  away  from  him.  She  supposed  she  ought  to  walk 
away  firmly  as  well.  She  was  considering  the  question, 
evidently,  the  smile  still  curving  her  lip,  her  white  dress 
brushing  the  lilies  in  the  staircase  corner,  its  purity 
endangered  by  their  gold. 

"  I  want  four,  and  five,  and  nine,  at  the  Weyburns  on 
Wednesday  night,"  said  Johnny,  having  looked  all  round 
him  under  his  eyelids  once.  His  father  was  in  sight: 
but  his  father  might  go  —  wherever  he  was  going,  when 
Helena  smiled  like  that. 

"Mr.  Ingestre!  Isn't  that  rather  excessive?  Four 
perhaps  —  and  nine."  A  glance  dragged  the  second  out 
of  her. 

"  I  shall  keep  five,"  Johnny  mentioned,  "  on  the 
chance." 

"  And  suppose  I  happen  to  be  engaged  for  it  ?  " 

"  It'll  be  a  bore,"  admitted  Johnny.  "  For  the  other 
man." 

The  remainder  of  the  dialogue  was  not  in  words.  He 
had  penned  her  in  by  the  lilies,  so  of  course  she  could  not 
move.  For  years  after,  the  scent  of  lilies  touched 
Helena  with  the  magical  languor  of  that  hour,  and  possibly 
him  also.  Summer-time, —  immortal,  immemorial  sum- 
mer, first  youth,  first  love:  there  is  nothing  like  it  any- 
where, or  ever  again.  Of  course  there  is  not,  it  is  a 
commonplace:  yet  its  unapproachable  quality,  its  special 
sanctity,  had  never  touched  John  before.  It  was  that, 
really,  the  undefinable  sense  of  that  all  about  him,  that 


216  THE  ACCOLADE 

baffled  his  own  acting,  shamed  him  eventually  out  of 
speech.  He  had  trifled,  of  course,  because  he  had  to, 
and  because  he  could  barely  find  other  language  in  a 
woman's  vicinity:  but  it  was  not  suitable  to  this  woman 
for  a  moment,  his  cousin  was  right.  It  was  not  so 
Helena  was  made  to  be  addressed,  or  approached.  He 
would  be  better  at  her  feet,  far  better,  and  his  hand 
clutched  the  staircase  rail,  as  though  to  save  him  from 
that  more  fitting  attitude.  His  eyes  flitted  round  him  the 
while,  fierce  almost,  and  lowering.  He  would  have  liked, 
before  all  that  chattering  roomful,  to  stoop,  kiss  her  gar- 
ments, and  apologize  for  so  using  her.  As  it  was,  she 
could  only  scorn  him,  little  angel,  equally  with  the  con- 
temptible crowd.  He  was  worth  no  more  to  her,  really, 
than  they,  never  would  be, —  he  must  not  be.  And  his 
mother,  who  could  alone  have  linked  them  naturally, 
helped  him  to  bear  it,  helpless  herself,  was  in  that  room 
upstairs.  The  security  her  love  and  support  had  always 
lent  him,  seemed  to  have  vanished,  or  to  be  slipping  his 
grasp. 

He  turned  on  Helena,  as  though  he  would  have  spoken, 
but  again,  he  did  not:  her  aspect  seemed  to  cut  him  off. 
But  she  felt  his  eyes  on  her,  examining.  He  had  that 
glance  of  late,  faintly  anxious,  strange  to  her  senses, — 
yet  distrust  could  not  stand  before  it.  He  might  flirt, 
talk  nonsense  to  her,  as  he  did  to  other  girls, —  but  he  was 
not  like  that.  She  held  him  fast,  all 'she  had  ever  held, 
no  strand  of  confidence  loosened,  tease  he  never  so. 
Helena  still  had  her  benignant  air,  her  dreamy  eyes 
turned  sidelong  past  him,  even  that  exquisite  dimple  fad- 
ing and  reappearing  under  his  gaze, —  because  he  amused 
her,  even  at  his  silliest,  he  really  did.  .  .  . 

Johnny  swept  her  in,  sweet  sight  that  she  was,  angelic 
denizen  of  an  infant  world:  he  took  one  draught  of  the 
heavens  closed  to  him,  and  swung  about.  Two  seconds 
later  he  was  talking  agreeably  to  an  aunt  of  Ur- 
sula's. 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  217 

Mrs.  Falkland  accompanied  her  children,  her  two 
youngest  and  dearest,  to  Lady  Weyburn's  ball.  It  was 
a  young  dance,  the  elder  Miss  Weyburn's  coming  of  age : 
but  sure  to  be  brilliant,  since  it  was  a  house  where  many 
social  highroads  crossed.  Everybody,  Mrs.  Falkland 
flattered  herself,  would  be  there.  She  was  in  her  usual 
complacent  mood  of  the  hen-mother  of  two  strikingly 
successful  chicks.  Helena,  of  course,  was  the  more  con- 
spicuous :  she  might  be  said  to  be  passed,  "  hors  concours," 
by  the  best  judges:  a  little  languid  and  silent  to-night, 
perhaps,  but  then  it  was  a  hot  night,  the  season  dragging 
to  a  close,  and  girls  have  their  up  and  downs.  Helena 
would  soon  be  in  the  country,  and  might  quite  well  score 
a  few  more  triumphs  first. 

As  for  Harold,  it  was  true  none  but  Mrs.  Falk- 
land knew  his  entire  and  exceptional  inner  worth,  but 
anybody  could  see  the  bland  perfection  of  his  appearance. 
Not  a  stud,  not  a  hair  of  Harold  was  ever  out  of  place. 
His  manners,  his  movements,  his  rare  but  well-chosen 
smiles,  his  ties  and  socks,  were  all  the  very  thing, —  there 
was  no  other  word  for  it.  He  was  not  a  commanding 
presence,  like  Mr.  Auberon,  nor  theatrically  good-look- 
ing, like  Mr.  Ingestre,  nor  ingratiating,  like  some  of 
Helena's  smart  admirers,  nor  effervescent,  like  others. 
But  then,  how  much  to  the  point  was  everything  he  said ! 
Even  the  best  people  attended  to  Harold,  when  he  chose 
to  open  his  lips ;  and  he  treated  the  happy  girls  whom  he 
selected  for  partners  to  all  kinds  of  odd  sayings,  elegant 
turns,  and  adroit  attentions.  Mrs.  Falkland  was  quite 
jealous  of  them,  at  times. 

Yet,  oddly  enough,  Harold  was  silent  too,  this  evening. 
What  was  more  remarkable,  though  they  arrived  in  good 
time,  he  sat  down  for  the  first  dance,  regardless  of  the 
innumerable  young  ladies  who,  Mrs.  Falkland  was  cer- 
tain, were  sighing  for  him  on  every  side.  However, 
since  he  sat  it  out  near  her,  close  at  her  elbows,  she  did 
not  blame  him  for  his  behavior,  except  playfully;  and 


218  THE  ACCOLADE 

even  then,  Harold's  face  did  not  change.  One  single 
doubt  she  had,  having  noted  his  serious  expression, — 
she  asked  him  if  anything  at  dinner  had  disagreed  with 
him. 

"  No,  Mother,"  said  Harold  —  in  a  tone  like  Hamlet's : 
however  it  relieved  her  mind  completely. 

Presently  he  leant  back  and  made  an  observation: 
short,  like  all  Harold's  clever  remarks.  It  appeared  to 
concern  his  sister's  dances, —  pre-engagements, —  what 
other  girls  did. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Falkland,  who  was  silently 
pricing  the  lace  on  Lady  Weyburn's  train. 

"  He  hasn't  even  come !  "  said  Harold. 

"  Who  ?  "  Mrs.  Falkland  left  her  calculation  in  the 
middle.  She  was  pretty  sure  the  lace,  though  beautiful, 
was  less  expensive  than  hers. 

"  Ingestre,  of  course, —  who  d'you  suppose?" 

"  Haven't  they  ?  But  I  thought  I  saw  her  on  the  stairs. 
Perhaps  it  was  someone  doing  her  hair  the  same  way: 
those  coils  are  common."  She  added, — "  They're  often 
late." 

"Takes  precious  good  care  to  be,"  muttered  Harold. 

"  They  might  have  been  kept,"  pursued  Mrs.  Falkland, 
in  a  tone  of  outrageous  complacency,  as  though  being 
kept,  for  such  people,  was  a  virtue !  .  .  .  "  There's  Mrs. 
Shovell,"  she  proceeded,  "  and  Lord  What's-his-name, 
and  I've  met  that  fair  man  too,  only  I  can't  lay  hands 
on —  Really,  dear,  we  know  nearly  everybody  to- 
night." 

"  Well,  strikes  me  as  a  bit  infra  dig.,  that's  all,"  said 
Harold,  as  though  she  had  not  spoken.  "  Put  herself  at 
the  mercy  —  cad  like  that." 

He  spoke  between  his  teeth,  and  his  eyes  were  nar- 
rowed. It  had  rather  a  cutting  effect,  or  would  have 
had,  only  he  spoke  so  low.  He  was  too  cautious, —  his 
mother,  still  unwarned,  was  only  faintly  flustered  at  the 
term  he  used. 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  219 

"  Oh,  my  dear, —  even  if  you  dislike  him  — "  She 
glanced  quickly  round  her. 

"  Oh,  he's  jolly  rich,"  said  Harold.  "  I  know."  He 
got  up,  rather  wearily.  "  All  right,  Mother,  leave  it  to 
you.  It's  only  —  some  girls  might,  of  course, —  not  her. 
It's  — "  he  paused  — "  a  matter  of  taste." 

With  which,  shortly  after,  he  was  gone,  with  his  easy 
step,  in  the  direction  of  the  younger  Miss  Weyburn,  a  lit- 
tle plump  simple-natured  girl,  of  whom  he  was  fond. 

Mrs.  Falkland  continued  flustered  for  a  time.  Taste! 
And  in  Harold's  mouth, —  that  meant  something.  But 
what  did  he  mean  was  tasteless, —  what  was  wrong? 
Had  he  quarreled  with  his  sister?  She  could  not  con- 
ceive it,  somehow.  The  understanding  of  the  pair  might 
be  called  elastic, —  they  snapped  one  another  up  rather 
sadly  at  meal-times, —  but  it  was  firm.  Whenever 
Helena  was  attacked,  or  in  difficulties, —  neither  thing 
happened  very  often, —  inconspicuously,  Harold  was  al- 
ways at  her  side.  He  was  quick  and  quiet  to  uphold  her, 
at  need,  and  very  tough  to  dispose  of.  Even  the  clever 
Mr.  Auberon  found  that. 

Now,  it  seemed,  he  disapproved  of  something  his  sis- 
ter had  been  doing,  as  regarded  Mr.  Ingestre :  something, 
let  us  say,  unwise.  Mrs.  Falkland  had  grown  so  used, 
by  now,  to  Helena  making  her  way  unaided,  that  she  was 
almost  timid  of  meddling.  Really,  the  girl  had  done  so 
well  for  herself,  all  told,  and  had  made  her  own  position. 
Nothing  was  more  marked  than  Helena's  good  sense, 
her  happy  influence,  the  order  she  maintained  single- 
handed  in  her  little  court.  What  she  called  "  nonsense  " 
made  her  impatient,  she  could  not  tolerate  it.  One  or 
two  really  silly  young  men  had  been  inclined  to  give 
trouble:  various  little  intrigues  and  bickerings  had  come 
to  Mrs.  Falkland's  ears.  But  always  late:  before  she 
could  grow  anxious,  Helena  had  laughed  or  reasoned 
them  out  of  it,  smoothed  things  over  with  a  capable  hand, 
and  all  was  orderly  about  her  steps  again. 


220  THE  ACCOLADE 

However,  in  matters  of  taste,  the  crystal  standard  of 
the  moment,  Mrs.  Falkland  put  Harold  in  front  of 
Helena,  just.  Harold  was  absolute, —  the  oracle.  So, 
having  cogitated  the  mystery  for  a  short  time,  she  called 
Helena  to  her  side,  and  requested  with  mild  gravity  to 
look  at  her  program.  She  examined  it  a  minute. 

"  Who  does  the  cross  stand  for  ? "  she  said,  quite 
pleasantly.  The  short-hand  the  oracle  Harold  employed 
at  dances  amused  her,  and  she  was  ready  to  take  the 
young  people's  habits  as  a  joke.  "  Oh, —  well,  then,  my 
dear,  I  think  three's  too  many.  One's  enough,  really, 
or  — "  with  a  flitting  vision  of  the  fine  gentleman  Johnny, 
"  two,  to-night,  let's  say,  not  to  seem  too  pointed.  But 
three's  too  many-1-"  she  handed  the  card  back,  her 
kind  complacent  eyes  exploring  the  room  — "  except  to 
friends." 

Helena  turned  rather  pale,  but  said  nothing,  which 
struck  her  mother  as  curious.  When  John,  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  made  his  way  to  her  through  the  throng, 
she  looked  in  his  face,  still  pale,  and  said  — "  Would  you 
mind  sitting  it  out,  Mr.  Ingestre  ?  " 

"  I  was  about  to  ask  you  if  you  minded,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  wanted  at  home, —  I've  only  come  for  half  an 
hour." 

He  had  come  for  her  dance,  then:  timed  it  carefully: 
there  ^ was  no  mistaking  the  intention,  thus  confessed; 
and  he  was  going  back,  she  guessed,  to  his  mother's  bed- 
side afterwards.  ...  It  was  like  him  to  do  it,  that  slight 
"  sensational  "  that  clung  to  everything  Johnny  did.  And 
yet,  he  was  falsifying  nothing.  Life  does  offer  drama, 
the  clash  of  great  sentiments,  occasionally:  and  that  it 
was  the  drama  of  life,  Helena  was  certain  by  his  face, 
while  his  tongue  entertained  her  idly. 

She  went  whither  he  steered  her,  secure  in  his  com- 
mand. When  they  reached  solitude,  she  longed  for  si- 
lence to  gather  her  thoughts  again ;  but  he  was  not  silent, 
since  he  could  not  venture  to  be.  He  sat  stringing  sen- 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  221 

tences,  anything  that  came:  he  told  her  stories  even,  as 
she  recollected  afterwards.  He  seemed  at  once  tired  and 
excited,  gathered  to  meet  a  crisis  he  had  foreseen. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  anxious,"  she  said,  breaking  the 
silence  when  he  stopped.  "  And  if  so,  you  must  not  stay. 
You  must  go  back  to  her  and  not  consider  me." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "  I  am  anxious,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  want  to  be  there.  I  calculated  it  was  worth  it, 
that  was  all.  I  couldn't  miss  my  whole  evening,  Miss 
Falkland,  so  I  gambled  for  a  third." 

His  "  evening  "  were  her  dances. 

"  You  have  the  whole,"  said  Helena,  her  voice  shaken. 
"  This  is  the  whole  evening.  I  should  have  asked  you 
to  let  me  off  the  other  two  to-night." 

"  You're  ill,"  said  John  quickly.  He  had  just  noticed 
her  pallor. 

"  No :  only  my  mother  thought  it  one  too  many.  She 
told  me  so.  So  I  struck  out  two." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Johnny,  intent  on  her  look  and  tone. 

"I'm  not  going — just  as  far  as  they'll  let  me.  They 
needn't  think  it,"  said  Helena.  She  added  in  another 
tone  — "  And  I  don't  want  to  make  her  unhappy,  any  of 
them,  before " 

"  Before  you  must,"  said  John.  She  had  bitten  her 
lip.  In  the  long  pause,  her  eyes  turned  slowly,  as  if  com- 
pelled against  their  will,  in  his  directjon.  Not  till  they 
reached  his  did  he  stir  at  all. 

"  Oh,  go,"  she  said,  horrified  and  entranced.  "  You 
mustn't,  really."  For  he  had  swung  forward  on  the  in- 
stant and  snatched  her  hand. 

"  But  this  is  my  whole  evening,"  he  said.  "  And  yours, 
you  admitted  it.  I  can't  let  you  off  that  admission, 
Helena, —  it's  too  glorious.  You  practically  put  your 
pencil  through  all  the  other  names  on  your  card."  She 
did  so,  with  the  same  hand  that  he  was  grasping,  a  shak- 
ing little  hand,  while  he  slipped  to  a  kneeling  posture  at 
her  side.  Together  they  made  a  very  crooked  line,  scor- 


222  THE  ACCOLADE 

ing  through  all  the  alien  initials:  and  having  completed 
the  work,  looked  in  one  another's  eyes  and  laughed. 

"  Oh,  this  is  heaven,"  said  Johnny,  as  pale  as  she  was. 
"Is 'it  true,  Helena?" 

"  Of  course  it  is  true.  The  first  true  thing  of  my  life, 
I  think." 

"  And  of  mine,"  he  said  instantly. 

"  I'm  wicked  by  nature,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  quite 
simply.  "  I  never  knew  I  was  before." 

"  Wicked  ?  You're  divine !  The  only  woman  I  ever 
knew  who  cannot  lie.  You  can't,  Helena,  the  whole 
gang  of  them  can't  teach  you.  I  think  you  live  by  the 
truth." 

"  I  know  I  love  you,"  she  whispered,  laughing  low. 
"  I  can't  think  how  it's  happened,  but  I  do." 

"  But  you  oughtn't  to  have  told  me,"  he  laughed  back. 
"  You  ought  to  have  let  concealment  —  and  so  on."  He 
touched  her  cheek  with  a  curved  finger,  very  gently. 
"  That's  what  the  girls  do  in  the  nice  stories,  always." 

She  shook  her  head,  defending  the  nice  stories.  "  They 
only  do  that  when  he  loves  another  best." 

"  And  you  knew  I  loved  you  best  ?  No,  you're  di- 
vine," he  asseverated.  "But  how,  darling? — since 
when?  I've  acted  so  rippingly,  Helena.  I'm  dashed  if 
I  didn't  act  well !  " 

"  Rippingly,"  she  nodded.  "  But  not  quite  well 
enough,  for  me.  And  of  course  I  didn't  act  well  enough 
for  you  —  because  I  can't  act,  can  I  ?  You  know  I  can't. 
You  are  the  person  who  knows.  Oh,  if  only " 

It  came.  She  caught  her  breath  and  shut  her  eyes,  her 
head  leaning  helplessly  against  him.  The  truth  had 
struck  her,  and  from  her,  reverberated  to  him.  For  a 
moment  it  stunned  —  froze  in  both  that  beautiful,  ele- 
mental rapture  of  discovery.  Then  each  was  seized  with 
scruples  —  for  the  other,  of  course.  She  first. 

"  It's  nonsense,  of  course,"  she  said,  in  a  reasonable, 
resigned  little  tone.  "  Silliness, —  it's  all  a  fairy-tale, —  I 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  223 

quite  see  that.  I've  known  it  always  when  I  was  sensible, 
not  asleep.  After  this,  you  will  go  away  again." 

"  I  shan't."    He  swore  it.     "  You  are  mine." 

"  Yes, —  listen, —  because  you  are  not  like  other  people. 
You  are  a  king's  son, —  can't  do  what  you  want." 

"  I  can  choose  my  princess, —  Goldilocks."  He 
touched  and  smoothed  her  treasure  of  hair  with  his  fine 
brown  fingers.  He  had  taken  her  completely  in  his  arms. 
Terror  and  joy  seemed  exactly  equal  to  Helena,  she  stood 
on  the  knife-edge  between  them.  Each  panting  breath 
she  drew  was  joy  and  pain.  Was  this  heaven,  she  won- 
dered? She  had  often  speculated  in  her  childhood  what 
heaven  was.  Yet  still  she  strove  for  daylight  reason, 
valiantly. 

"  Listen,  Mr.  Ingestre " 

"  Say,  John,"  he  commanded. 

"  I  can't, —  I  really  daren't.  Oh,  don't  you  see  ?  She 
is  there  already.  You  have  chosen." 

"  I  never  chose !  I  swear  it.  ...  Helena,  we  don't. 
If  you  will  put  it  that  way,  I'll  use  your  reasoning.  Lord 
knows  it  was  Ursula's  fault  even  less  than  mine.  She 
was  laid  before  me,  to  take  or  leave,  at  a  moment  when 
my  father  had  me  at  his  mercy.  I  always  meant  to  tell 
you  this,  it's  the  thing  I  had  hoped  to  tell  you.  .  .  .  Lis- 
ten now.  I'd  half-killed  my  mother,  you  know,  in  trying 
to  chuck  my  —  er  —  kingdom  for  the  stage.  I  still  think 
the  other's  a  better  kingdom.  My  father  in  a  fury  is  — 
what  he  is.  I  was  bad  enough  at  the  time,  half  off  my 
head,  but  I'm  nothing  to  him.  Mother  was  too  ill  to 
help  me,  and  that,  of  course,  was  my  fault, —  and  his 
advantage.  See  ?  He  used  that  against  me  at  every  turn, 
went  on  at  it,  hammered  —  beast!  —  it  did  for  me  in 
the  end.  He  knows  how  to  do  for  me  —  pretty  well  —  I 
never  told  Mother  half.  I  was  sick  of  it, —  tired  out, — 
I  was  only  twenty-two."  He  took  breath,  exhausted 
even  in  the  recital,  as  it  seemed.  "  Course  I'd  made  love 
to  the  girl, —  her  people  expected  it, —  she  wanted  me, 


224  THE  ACCOLADE 

made  it  pretty  clear.  And  I  liked  her  —  think  I  did — " 
He  paused  anew,  his  eyes  seeking,  his  brow  raised.  Then 
he  brushed  all  vain  apology  aside.  "  But  anyhow,  what 
does  it  matter,  darling?  I'd  not  seen  you  then.  I 
couldn't  know,  couldn't  guess,  I  should  ever  find  you. 
Could  I?  Tell  me  if  I  could." 

But  she  was  still  hopeless,  drooping  like  a  shorn 
flower, —  terribly  pale.  His  scruples  came  then,  in- 
evitably. "  My  little  girl,"  he  murmured.  "  Have  I 
hurt  you?  I  was  wrong." 

"  No,"  she  gasped.  "  I've  never  been  so  happy.  It's 
enough  —  for  all  my  life."  He  watched  her  silently. 

"  I've  hurt  you,"  he  repeated,  "  it's  monstrous.  How 
old  are  you,  Helena  ?  " 

"  Nineteen  and  three  months." 

"  Monstrous, —  it's  too   young.    You  can't  know." 

"  Teach  me  to  know,"  she  said.    "  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  You're  goodness  itself, —  heaven's  goodness.  I 
oughtn't  to  touch  you." 

He  loosened  the  constriction  of  his  arms,  and  she  in- 
stantly nestled  closer  to  him.  Every  movement  of  her 
childish  confidence  alarmed  him  more.  If  she  had  shown 
the  least  suspicion,  shrinking, —  knowledge,  as  he  said. 
But  she  was  at  home  in  his  arms,  had  flown  there  straight, 
nature  guiding  and  her  warm  heart.  She  felt,  as  he  did, 
that  all  other  things  in  the  world  might  be  wrong  — 
this  was  right.  She  was  made  for  him:  most  glorious 
and  most  terrible,  they  knew  it,  both. 

Only  in  him  the  grande  passion,  the  great  stress,  awak- 
ened deeps  unknown  to  her.  The  whole  of  him,  and  the 
knowledge  he  had  painfully  earned,  arose  to  defend  her. 
All  his  past  experience  went  for  nothing,  if  it  could  not 
illuminate  this.  Seeking  desperately  to  think  for  Helena, 
to  see  things  for  her,  John  was  for  the  first  time  hum- 
bled, knew  himself  unfit.  How  could  he  ever  pay  what 
he  owed  her  for  that  confession?  How  could  such  as 
he  pretend  to  pay?  That  was  his  first  thought,  and  sig- 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  225 

nificant  as  his  posture  at  her  side.  Her  innocence  and 
devotion,  together  with  her  high  courage,  completely  con- 
quered him.  He  knew,  as  he  knelt  there,  he  was  "  over- 
thrown "  like  Orlando :  at  her  feet,  for  life. 

"  Unless  my  mother  is  worse,"  he  said  with  difficulty, 
"  I  am  going  to  the  country  next  month.  I  must  go  down 
for  a  time, —  later  I  join  my  wife  abroad." 

"  Abroad  ?  "    Her  hand  tightened  on  him. 

"  She's  ordered  to  some  baths,  for  her  health.  She's 
not  strong."  He  was  still  seeking  desperately  the  things 
he  could,  and  could  not  say.  His  swift  glances  con- 
stantly swept  her  in,  as  though  for  tonic  and  consolation. 
It  was  the  same  anxious  look  that  had  puzzled  her  at  the 
reception:  different  now,  for  she  understood  it.  He 
needed  her,  needed  sorely:  she  wondered  she  had  not 
guessed. 

"  Must  you  go  to  the  country  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  must, —  business :  and  it  is  some  way." 

"  I  am  going  with  my  brother  and  Mr.  Auberon.to  the 
Lakes  in  August,"  said  Helena.  "  We  shall  be  walking 
about." 

"Then  it  is  less  far,"  said  Johnny.  "Much."  He 
cursed  Mr.  Auberon  in  his  soul.  How  dare  he  walk  with 
Helena  across  the  Lake  country?  Of  all  glorious  girls 
to  walk  with,  in  a  glorious  land!  Black  thunder 
gathered  on  Johnny's  brow. 

"  I  shall  come  and  walk  too,"  he  observed. 

"  No, —  because  you  have  your  business."  A  pause. 
"  Don't  look  so  cross,"  she  entreated.  "  I'll  write  to 
you, —  give  me  your  address." 

"  It's  Routhwick,  my  father's  Yorkshire  estate."  He 
wrote  it  on  the  back  of  her  dance-card,  with  his  arms  still 
about  her,  and  said  absently, — "  You  can  see  the  hills 
from  there." 

"  Do  you  love  mountains  ?  "  said  Helena,  her  eyes  ador- 
ing him.  "  I'm  so  glad, —  so  do  I." 

"  I  was  born  at  Routhwick,"  said  Johnny.     "  I  love 


226  ,THE  ACCOLADE 

every  inch  of  it:  for  which  reason,  no  doubt,"  he  added, 
handing  back  her  card,  "  my  wife  does  not.  Now  I've 
got  to  go, —  my  little  angel."  He  clutched  her,  and 
looked  her  all  over,  with  hungry  eyes. 

"  My  evening's  done,"  he  said,  holding  her  clenched 
hand  back  against  him.  "The  best  of  my  life,  so  far. 
Is  yours  ?  "  She  nodded.  He  looked  down  at  her  hand 
doubtfully,  and  kissed  her  fingers  once. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Helena,  lifting  her  mouth  to  him 
like  a  child. 

"  Oh,  Lord  help  me,"  said  Johnny  internally.  But  he 
did  not  do  it,  even  then.  He  bent  his  cheek  to  her  fair 
brow  a  minute,  holding  her  to  him  with  all  the  force,  the 
life  that  was  in  him;  and  then  let  her  go,  and  dragged 
himself  away. 

Helena,  after  a  space,  straightened  herself,  and  went 
back  to  the  ballroom.  Her  step  was  languid,  and  her 
limbs  tired, —  to  her  own  surprise,  for  it  was  only  the 
third  dance,  and  she  was  young  enough  hardly  to  know 
fatigue. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Miss  Falkland  ?  "  said  some- 
body in  her  hearing  as  she  passed :  and  added,  not  in  her 
hearing, — "  Good  heavens,  how  lovely  she  looks !  " 

By  luck  —  great  luck  —  she  passed  Mrs.  Shovell  be- 
fore she  reached  the  fullest  light.  By  better  luck  still, 
Helena's  own  brother  was  sitting  at  her  side.  They  rose 
simultaneously,  and  Harold,  striding  forward,  put  a 
hand  upon  her. 

"  Come  this  way  a  minute,"  he  said  briefly.  "  Mrs. 
Shovell  wants  you.  Don't  go  on." 

Helena,  pallid  and  brilliant-eyed,  looked  beyond  him. 
"  Some  one  is  waiting,"  she  said  dreamily.  "  I'd  rather 
not  make  a  fuss." 

"  My  dear  girl,  the  fuss  will  make  itself  if  you  go 
through  that  door,  trust  me.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  looking  like." 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  227 

"  But  —  what  will  you  say  ?  "  Helena  succumbed  to 
the  pressure  on  her,  with  a  faint  sob  of  relief. 

"  I'll  say  Mrs.  Shovell  is  seedy,  and  you're  looking  after 
her.  That'll  hold  water,  won't  it?  "  He  turned  round. 

"  Brilliant,"  said  Violet.  It  was  brilliant,  being  near 
the  truth,  for  she  was  not  well,  and  had  come  that  evening 
simply  not  to  disappoint  her  friends,  the  Weyburn  family. 

"  It'll  rile  the  Mater  too,"  murmured  Harold,  "  which 
is  all  to  the  good." 

He  looked  at  the  two  girls  a  moment,  and  went  on  with 
a  nod,  satisfied  that  he  had  done  well  in  this  last  move. 
Two  moves,  indeed.  For,  turning  over  his  resources, 
after  his  failure  with  his  mother,  he  had  made  straight 
for  that  girl,  Helena's  friend.  She  had  proved  to  be 
pretty  well  up-to-date  in  the  Ingestre  business, —  Harold 
had  expected  that.  He  had  spotted  her  as  a  girl  of  sense 
at  their  first  encounter,  long  since,  in  Regent's  Hall. 
Sense  was  all  Harold  granted  Violet,  but  it  meant  some- 
thing, from  him.  He  had  really  had  quite  an  enjoyable 
half-hour  at  her  side,  conveying  things  to  her  through 
the  medium  of  perfectly  conventional  dialogue,  and  be- 
ing adroitly  met  half-way.  After  Harold's  mother's  re- 
cent exhibition,  it  was  refreshing.  He  even  ventured  to 
broach  the  subject  of  the  Lake  District  expedition  in 
August:  and  Mrs.  Shovell  saw  the  point  of  it,  which 
Harold  had  hardly  hoped  of  her.  She  showed  her  sense 
once  more  in  being  interested. 

This  pleasant  plan  Harold  had  himself  proposed,  as  a 
remedy  for  all  ills,  at  a  date  as  early  as  Easter.  He  had 
counted  on  his  mother's  recognizing  instantly  its  supreme 
value  for  Helena:  combining  as  it  did  fresh  air,  hard 
exercise,  Harold's  society,  Auberon's  moral  support,  and 
the  absence  of  the  cad  Ingestre,  all  in  a  single  flash  of 
Harold's  genius.  But  his  mother,  failing  to  recognize 
anything  of  the  sort,  or  to  see  anything  as  Harold  saw 
it,  had  put  it  off  and  off ;  until  now,  Harold  much  feared 
by  the  signs  in  his  sister's  face,  it  had  come  too  late. 


228  THE  ACCOLADE 

Lately,  encouraged  by  Helena's  sensible  friend,  he  had 
gone  into  detail.  Knowing  the  Westmorland  district  like 
the  back  of  his  hand,  he  had  drawn  plans  for  Mrs. 
Shovell,  and  recited  strings  of  beautiful  and  suggestive 
names,  together  with  the  inns,  farms,  streams  with  bath- 
ing properties,  and  other  places  of  refreshment  he  meant 
to  patronize.  Mrs.  Shovell  seemed  to  like  listening, 
though  she  said  little, —  but  then  she  was  not  well.  Her 
sense  altogether  had  been  so  remarkable,  and  she  looked 
so  nice  at  Harold's  side,  that  with  a  new  flash  of  his 
genius,  he  had  invited  her  to  come  too.  This  would 
complete  the  quartet,  put  a  finishing  touch  to  Helena's 
cure,  and  be  extremely  exciting  for  Harold  by  the  way. 
But  Mrs.  Shovell,  owing,  he  supposed,  to  babies  and  such- 
like, did  not  see  it.  There  was  a  little  line  in  her  fore- 
head, together  with  a  little  curve  of  her  lip,  that  sug- 
gested the  proposal  amused  her.  Harold  had  just  been 
wondering  why  she  smiled  like  that,  as  though  he  were 
far  younger  than  she  was  —  which  was  not  the  case  — 
when  his  sister  hove  in  sight,  and  distracted  him. 

Now,  leaving  Violet  in  charge,  he  abandoned  duty, 
content  on  the  whole  with  his  evening's  work ;  and 
returned  to  the  simple  charms  of  the  younger  Miss  Wey- 
burn  —  perhaps  to  rest  his  mind.  But  he  took  one  more 
momentous  decision  before  the  evening  was  quite  out, 
having  turned  it  over  carefully.  He  would  give  a  few 
selected  facts  to  the  old  governor  at  home,  and  get  him  to 
talk  to  Helena  a  bit,  during  their  customary  walk  in  the 
Gardens  on  Sunday  afternoon.  The  old  governor,  with 
girls,  had  good  ideas  at  times. 

As  for  his  mother,  he  gave  her  up. 

rv 

Johnny  arrived  late  in  his  own  home,  but  Ursula  was 
waiting  for  him.  Her  mother-in-law  being  really  ill,  she 
had  quietly  annulled  the  dance,  though  she  was  already 
dressed  for  it  when  the  news  came.  Johnny,  who  was 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  229 

dressed  too,  had  gone  straight  to  his  father's  house;  and 
she  had  not  seen  him  since,  though  he  had  telephoned  soon 
after  his  departure  that  there  was  no  immediate  reason 
for  anxiety. 

Ursula,  sitting  alone  by  the  hearth  in  her  handsome 
drawing-room,  had  not  wasted  her  time.  Her  fingers 
were  busy:  she  was  learning  her  new  crochet-stitch  by 
patient  practice,  and  making  by  its  means  a  shawl  for  a 
widow,  or  a  petticoat  for  an  orphan,  we  are  not  sure 
which.  Soldiers'  daughters  have  their  eyes  turned  on 
the  suffering  centers  of  the  world,  the  war-centers,  at 
least :  and  since  war  is  common  in  our  civilized  era,  so  is 
widowhood  in  its  wake. 

So  working,  Ursula  reflected  steadily.  John's  mother 
was  hopelessly  ill,  and  though  these  sharper  crises  came 
and  went,  they  could  ultimately  finish  in  but  one  way. 
Agatha's  death  would  add  to  Ursula's  responsibilities  im- 
mediately. There  was  no  doubt  her  father-in-law  would 
continue  to  appeal  to  her  to  act  hostess  on  his  premises; 
or,  what  was  more  probable,  considering  his  mother's  age, 
shift  the  whole  burden  of  entertainment  to  Ursula's  house. 
It  would  change  the  quiet  life  of  her  house  considerably, 
and  it  would  "  stir  up  "  John.  Having  got  so  far,  Ursula 
set  her  lips,  turned  her  crochet,  and  diverted. 

She  thought  of  her  dress  for  a  period, —  the  sight  of 
her  beautiful  satin  ball-skirt  reminded  her.  If  Agatha 
died  before  the  season  ended,  she  would  have  to  sacrifice 
some  very  handsome  gowns.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
knew  she  looked  well  in  black,  being  fair, —  that  was  a 
gentle  consolation.  The  only  time  Johnny  had  compli- 
mented her  in  recent  years,  was  when  she  suddenly 
draped  herself  in  black  for  a  Royal  funeral.  She  had  cut 
out  Violet  Shovell  on  that  occasion,  another  pleasing 
reminiscence.  Now  she  might  confidently  hope  to  cut  her 
out  for  a  considerable  period:  since,  if  there  were  any 
real  sense  of  fitness  in  the  girl  at  all  —  as  Ursula  trusted 
—  she  would  adopt  full  mourning  too. 


230  THE  ACCOLADE 

Johnny  would  mind, —  that  was  the  next  subject  that 
occurred  to  her :  he  would  feel  his  mother's  death  consid- 
erably,—  she  must  prepare  herself  for  that.  He  had  been 
visibly  frightened  that  evening,  and  would  be  sulky,  as 
surely,  when  he  returned.  She  could  not  pretend  to 
ignore  Johnny's  devotion  to  that  woman,  one  of  the  in- 
numerable women  with  whom  she  was  expected  to  share 
him.  If  he  lost  his  mother,  he  would  not  even  come  to 
her  for  consolation, —  not  he.  He  would  go  elsewhere, 
to  Violet,  to  some  other  little  inexperienced  doll  of  a 
schoolgirl  —  unnamed.  Yet,  reaching  that  thought,  her 
crocheting  work  grew  feverish,  irregular,  endangering  the 
immaculate  outline  of  the  widow's  shawl. 

She  cast  her  eyes  over  herself,  not  her  dress  this  time, 
and  glanced  up  at  the  lighted  mirror.  There  was  noth- 
ing wrong  with  her, —  she  had  more,  not  less,  than  the 
majority  of  the  women  she  encountered.  She  was  not  a 
thrilling  beauty,  of  course :  modish  artists  did  not  press  to 
paint  her,  as  they  had  done  with  one  or  two  of  Johnny's 
lovely  cousins :  but  she  was  well  above  the  average.  She 
dressed  well,  and  set  off  her  dresses, —  that  she  knew  by 
the  tailors'  attitude,  if  not  her  own  eyes.  She  rode, 
skated  and  danced  well,  if  not  brilliantly.  She  kept  her- 
self needfully  up-to-date  in  her  reading, —  even  poetry : 
she  had  often  been  in  front  of  Johnny  there.  As  house- 
mistress  she  was  perfection,  dared  anybody  to  compete; 
and  all  Johnny's  random  friends,  lugged  in  at  any  hour, 
respected  her.  Why  then  did  he  not  at  least  respect? 

No,  it  was  John  who  was  different  from  all  other  men, 
she  decided,  not  she  from  her  married  sisters.  It  was,  it 
must  be,  he  who  was  in  the  wrong.  She  thought  bitterly 
of  her  old  suitors, —  she  had  more  than  one.  With  any  of 
them- — she  thought  of  each  in  turn  —  she  would  have 
been  happier.  So  would  they,  not  a  doubt  of  it.  They 
had  all  paired  off,  quite  rightly,  she  did  not  blame  them : 
but  any  of  them,  she  guessed,  would  have  been  a  little  bet- 
ter off  with  her.  She  knew  what  she  had  to  give,  and  its 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  231 

market  value  in  the  world,  exactly:  she  did  not  exag- 
gerate. Only,  in  presenting  this  series  of  benefits  to 
John,  she  had  not  happened  to  add  children  to  the  list. 

The  girl  stopped  working:  her  hands  dropped  wearily. 
She  had  done  all  she  knew  in  that  matter  as  well,  she  had 
not  failed  her  duty,  nor  the  ideals  of  her  upbringing. 
She  had  not  complained,  barely  alluded  to  her  disappoint- 
ment,—  certainly  never  to  John.  She  had  been  patient, 
cheerful,  prudent,  attentive  to  her  health,  she  had  armed 
herself  with  reasoning,  she  had  prayed.  Her  religion, 
though  temperate  like  herself,  was  earnest  and  genuine. 
Her  priests  assured  her  there  is  an  answer  to  prayer, — 
she  had  not  found  it.  She  had  prayed, —  yes,  besought, 
humbled  herself,  striven  in  soul  till  she  was  tired.  She 
had  striven  against  jealousy,  too,  in  this  one  thing:  though 
of  course,  poor  girl,  she  had  not  succeeded.  She  refused 
to  believe  her  bkter  feeling  to  Violet  dated  from  the  birth 
of  her  child :  she  had  ante-dated  it  to  the  point  where,  in 
John's  father's  house,  she  had  first  tempted  him  to  admire 
her.  So  with  other  married  women, —  of  the  rest  she  did 
not  think.  Ursula,  cognizant  of  her  generation,  had 
heard  or  read  in  current  reviews  that  the  great  unmar- 
ried ranks  of  women  suffer  from  this  same  privation, 
bitterly.  But  what  was  their  suffering,  compared  with 
hers?  Wedded,  and  stripped  of  her  right.  Enthroned 
by  a  haughty  family,  that  the  world  might  see  her  indig- 
nity more  clearly.  A  whole  ring  of  eyes  fixed  on  her 
anxiously  from  year  to  year,  and  each  year  sliding  past 
her  empty,  futile.  Middle-age,  in  all  its  horror,  threat- 
ening just  ahead.  Doctors'  sugary  consolations,  empty 
auguries,  practiced  no  doubt  on  hundreds  of  women  as 
miserable  as  herself.  Could  they  not  see  that  to  her, 
more  than  to  all  the  hundreds,  a  child  was  owing,  essential 
to  her  position,  a  crying  need  ?  Fools  that  they  were  not 
to  divine  it  must  be  so,  however  well  she  feigned  the  con- 
trary! Fool  that  her  husband  was,  calling  himself  so 
clever,  most  of  all ! 


232  THE  ACCOLADE 

To-night,  when  John  came  home,  he  looked  exhausted, 
and  seemed  taciturn.  He  told  her  his  mother  was  better 
and  sleeping,  but  that  was  all  he  said  on  the  subject. 
Then  he  remained  long,  his  hands  locked  across  his  eyes, 
saying  nothing  at  all.  Ursula  asked  him  at  last  if  his 
head  was  aching,  and  he  denied  it;  but  the  question 
seemed  to  rouse  him  to  her  existence,  and  he  turned  his 
attention  to  her  passingly.  The  sight  of  her  still  in  her 
ball-dress  seemed  to  annoy  him,  and  he  asked  her  why  she 
had  not  changed. 

"  Why  haven't  you  ?  "  said  Ursula  tranquilly.  "  I  sup- 
pose mine  is  the  same  reason, —  laziness." 

"  You're  not  lazy,"  argued  Johnny :  obviously  at  his 
Grossest,  but  Ursula  forgave  him. 

"  I  assure  you  I  have  been  lazy  this  last  hour,"  she  said, 
glancing  instinctively  at  the  fine  growth  of  the  crochet 
shawl.  "  Will  you  have  some  whisky,  John  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  Water  alone, —  I'm  beastly  thirsty." 

She  handed  it,  and  he  did  not  thank  her.  He  drank 
eagerly,  though,  she  noted,  and  the  rare  flush  was  per- 
ceptible in  his  dark  face.  Ursula,  who  never  quite  lost 
the  hope  of  his  falling  ill  and  really  needing  her,  began  to 
be  interested.  John  was  not  immune  from  earthly  mi- 
crobes, after  all,  though  he  might  like  to  be  thought 
so. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  snapped  suddenly,  snatch- 
ing his  hand  away :  for,  laying  down  her  work,  she  had 
extended  hers  to  touch  his  wrist. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  if  you  were  feverish,"  said  Ursula. 
"  However,  it's  just  as  you  like."  She  took  up  her  work 
again.  "  I  suppose  if  you  were  you  wouldn't  tell  me. 
You'd  go  and  see  a  doctor  on  the  sly,  and  fly  at  every 
one  who  asked  you  how  you  were." 

"  How  well  you  know  me,"  said  Johnny.  "  I've  never 
been  better,  as  it  happens."  He  gazed  at  the  lamp,  lying 
full  length  in  his  chair,  and  added  dreamily  — "  In  my 
life." 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  233 

"  It  might  be  the  influenza,"  said  Ursula  after  a  pause. 
"  There's  heaps  about." 

"  It  isn't  the  influenza,"  said  Johnny. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  he  sneezed  at  this  moment,  and 
Ursula  glanced  at  him.  She  doubtless  considered  it 
proved  her  point.  However,  he  really  could  not  be 
bothered  about  what  Ursula  did  or  did  not  consider.  She 
was  beside  the  mark. 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  handkerchief  without  look- 
ing, and  —  as  luck  would  have  it  again  —  pulled  out  with 
it  the  half  of  a  long  white  glove. 

"  What  on  earth "  said  Ursula. 

Following  her  eyes,  Johnny  looked  down,  laid  hands  on 
the  glove  without  haste  or  emotion,  drew  it  completely 
out,  folded  it,  and  tucked  it  into  his  pocket  again.  .  .  . 
Now  he  was  in  for  it, —  so  much  the  better ! 

There  was  silence  in  the  room,  a  meaning  silence. 
Ursula  herself  had  put  out  his  clothes  that  evening,  and 
assured  herself  that  the  pockets  were  empty.  The  glove, 
therefore,  was  a  recent  acquisition.  The  sight  of  it 
frightened  her  sensibly.  Not  that  he  had  never  taken 
girls'  gloves  before, —  it  was  quite  on  the  cards  he  had  a 
collection,  labeled,  in  some  corner  of  his  fastness  in  the 
studio,  to  show  his  friends, —  it  was  the  occasion  that 
frightened  Ursula.  Indeed,  granted  the  occasion,  and 
with  the  evidence  she  held,  a  stronger  mind  must  have 
given  in,  admitted  then  and  there  her  defeat.  Not 
Ursula.  She  knew  it  meant  something,  but  she  shut  her 
mind  to  what  its  meaning  must  be.  She  sat  immovable, 
impenetrable,  trying  to  control  her  troubled  breathing;  to 
prevent,  by  will  force,  the  flush  she  felt  mounting  to  her 
face. 

"  I  left  when  the  clock  struck  twelve,"  said  Johnny  to 
fill  the  gap,  "  and  picked  this  up  on  the  doorstep.  Cin- 
derella for  kids,  adapted.  It  was  a  pretty  ball." 

"  You  mean  —  you  went  ?  " 

"  For  an  hour,  yes." 


234  THE  ACCOLADE 

The  girl  gasped.     "  An  hour  ?    To-night  ?  " 

"  I  went  to-night." 

"  A  lot  you  care  for  your  mother,"  said  Ursula,  on  a 
hurried  breath,  quite  coolly. 

"  That  won't  hold  water,  my  dear,"  thought  Johnny. 
"  Get  on." 

"Is  that  glove  Violet's?"  said  Ursula  presently.  She 
had  achieved  disdain. 

"  A  size  too  large,  I  should  say,"  said  Johnny.  "  Get 
on." 

"  Likely  I  should  guess,"  said  Ursula,  "  for  your 
amusement.  Whose-ever  it  is,  you  ought  to  return  it. 
It's  dishonest,  to  say  no  worse." 

"  And  you're  dishonest,  to  say  nothing  stronger,"  re- 
turned Johnny.  He  added  with  impatience  — "  Oh,  shut 
it,  Ursula :  it's  no  use." 

His  eyes  were  covered  again.  She  stirred  his  own 
obstinacy.  He  would  not  argue  on  such  false  lines.  She 
bored  him,  simply. 

Presently,  having  recovered  herself,  Ursula  began  to 
lecture. 

"  When  I've  been  doing  all  I  can  for  you,"  she  said, 
"  refused  the  Weyburns  myself, —  to  go  and  flirt " 

"  I  didn't  flirt,"  said  Johnny.     "  I  swear  it." 

"  You  might  think  of  yourself,"  said  Ursula,  disregard- 
ing, "  if  not  of  me.  As  if  fifty  people  wouldn't  notice 
you  were  there,  when  I  refused  ?  As  if  they  won't  all  be 
talking  of  it  to-morrow,  and  why,  and  how " 

"  Oh,  I  say,  will  they  ?  "  murmured  Johnny. 

"  That's  what  you  like," —  she  rode  over  him.  "  Really 
I  think  it's  what  you  live  for, —  showing  off." 

"  Thanks,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  really.  I  can't  do  more 
than  deny  it.  And  I  rather  doubt  if  eyes  are  fixed  on 
my  doings  to  that  extent.  I  hope  not " 

"  Rather  late  to  hope  it,"  said  Ursula. 

She  saw  the  chance  shot  had  got  home.  He  had 
flinched  for  the  moment,  thinking  of  Helena :  but  not  for 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  235 

long.  Past  was  past,  for  Johnny.  Besides,  he  was  grow- 
ing interested.  The  way  Ursula  kept  it  up,  in  the  face  of 
all  the  facts,  of  the  truth,  which  she  knew,  was  extraor- 
dinary. The  scene,  the  position  was  unhackneyed,  to  say 
the  least.  It  touched  the  sublime  absurdities. 

"  Let's  get  the  point  of  view,"  he  said  agreeably. 
"  Perhaps  you  thought  I  was  showing  off,  lately," —  he 
touched  his  pocket, — "  displaying  my  winnings, —  did 
you  ?  Well,  you  can  take  my  word  for  it,  I'd  sooner  you 
hadn't  seen." 

"  For  her  sake,"  returned  Ursula  icily,  making  him 
start.  "  But  I  shouldn't  trouble  about  that,  you  know. 
She'd  rather  I  saw, —  if  not  her  own  husband " 

"  Husband  ?  "  Johnny  gaped  for  an  instant,  genuinely, 
ingenuously  amazed.  Then,  seeing  the  tack,  he  dropped 
comedy.  He  gathered  himself  too,  his  mouth  shutting 
into  its  most  dangerous  line. 

"  Now  look  here,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  must  ask  you  to 
be  so  kind  as  to  leave  my  cousin  Violet  out  of  it.  I'm 
beastly  sorry,  and  so  would  she  be,  poor  little  girl,  since 
she  likes  to  be  useful.  But  you  can't  use  her,  in  this 
instance.  It  simply  can't  be  done." 

"Use  her?"  Ursula  paled  a  little  before  the  charge. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  should  I  mean  ?  There  are  limits,  even  for  me. 
See  ?  Get  on  to  somebody  else,  do  you  mind  ?  There  are 
lots  to  choose  from,  married  as  well." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean,  about  Violet  ?  I  want  to 
know." 

"Sure?"  he  jeered  bitterly.  "You  don't  care  for 
truth,  as  a  rule, —  and  I  can  tell  it,  I  warn  you.  Better 
let  it  alone."  As  she  still  stared,  after  some  silence, — 
"  Am  I  to  tell  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes."     She  dared  herself  and  him. 

Johnny  tossed  up.  "  All  right,"  he  said.  "  On  my 
word,  you  deserve  it,  dodging  behind  her  like  that.  .  .  . 
I'm  jolly  fond  of  Violet,  you  mayn't  know,  and  you've 


236  THE  ACCOLADE 

never  been  fair  to  her, —  for  myself  I  won't  speak.  You 
were  jealous  when  she  was  fourteen  —  oh  yes,  you  were. 
She's  done  a  lot  for  me,  at  different  times,  and  stood  a  lot 
from  me  too.  It's  been  no  fun  for  her,  knowing  me, 
always.  I  was  ready  to  treat  her  to  a  dose  of  my  difficul- 
ties last  night,  but  I  found,  for  once,  it  couldn't  be  man- 
aged. She  really  couldn't  be  bothered  with  me." 

"  Oh,  last  night,  was  it  ?  "  said  Ursula.  "  Did  she  snub 
you?" 

"  Longing  to  hear  about  it,  aren't  you  ?  "  said  Johnny, 
turning  his  laziest  drooping  look  upon  her,  passingly. 
"Not  often  I  get  snubbed,  is  it?  But  she's  one  of  the 
people  who  can  do  it  I  admit  that, —  she  can  do  it  in 
style."  He  waited  again,  tantalizing  deliberately.  "  She 
looked  ill  last  night  at  the  concert,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  Granny  noticed  it.  I  took  her  home." 

"  111  ?  "  said  Ursula.  She  had  turned  and  started :  then 
she  shrank,  visibly. 

"  Just  so,"  he  said.  "  I  hadn't  meant  to  speak  of  it, — 
granted  Granny,  it  was  safe  to  get  round.  Granny  was  at 
her  best,  at  the  concert.  '  That  girl  will  faint,'  she  said 
to  me,  as  pleased  as  possible,  half-way  through.  It  was 
her  unusually  —  er  —  jovial  expression  that  showed  me. 
Ghastly  they  are,  the  old  women, —  gloating, —  I've  seen 
it  before  now.  'Course  Granny  had  nine  of  her  own, — 
some  time  since, — "  he  paused,  the  sneer  fading  on  his 
expressive  face, — "  she  might  have  forgotten  a  bit,  put  it 
at  that.  Anyhow,  I  went  along  to  the  kid,  and  asked  her 
not  to  faint,  for  my  sake,  because  Granny  was  expecting 
her  to, —  and  she  didn't, —  scored.  I  never  tried  to  stop 
a  girl  fainting  before,"  said  Johnny,  pensively,  "  but  I  was 
pretty  sure  that  was  the  way  to  do  it,  granted  there  was  a 
way, —  and  I  was  right.  Now  I  shall  know  next  time. 
It's  true,  all  girls  aren't  so  beastly  considerate  for  a  fel- 
low's feelings  as  she  is, —  or  so  sensible, —  or  so  brave. 
She  was  better  in  the  interval,  talking  again.  Only  she 
looked  awfully  seedy,  poor  little  thing,  and  her  hand  — 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  237 

which  I  happened  to  be  holding  —  was  jolly  cold.  So  I 
saved  her  from  Granny's  humane  attentions  —  not  to  say 
attendance  —  that  would  have  finished  her  —  and  took 
her  home  myself." 

He  glanced  again  under  his  eyelids  at  Ursula,  who  sat 
like  a  rock,  icy,  disdainful,  her  hands  folded  above  her 
folded  work. 

"  I  returned  her  to  her  man,"  he  went  on  rather  lower, 
"  and  got  no  thanks  for  it.  He  couldn't  afford  to  attend  to 
me  either, —  odd,  isn't  it?  —  didn't  seem  to  think  I  mat- 
tered much.  She  likes  that  fellow,  you  mayn't  have  no- 
ticed,—  what  I  mean  is,  you  might  have  left  it  out  of 
account.  As  for  him  —  I  might  have  been  a  fly  on  the 
wall.  He  treated  me  to  a  demonstration  gratis  —  know- 
ing I  knew  the  girl  was  twice  too  good  for  him,  it  was 
just  his  chance.  I  don't  blame  him,  either.  You'd  have 
called  it  damned  improper  probably.  I  couldn't  have 
done  it  better  myself." 

Once  more  he  waited  to  take  breath, —  he  needed  it. 

"  I'm  out  of  it  altogether  in  that  little  establishment," 
he  finished,  "  for  the  next  eight  months  or  so.  And  de- 
serve to  be,  no  doubt, —  you  needn't  tell  me  so.  Only  — 
if  you  and  the  council  of  the  upright  want  a  name  to  poke 
at  me  —  to  shelter  behind  —  you  can  leave  hers  alone  for 
the  same  period  —  that's  all." 

"  I  may  mention  I  never  used  her  name,"  said  Ursula, 
breathless  as  he. 

"  No,  you  took  care  not  to,"  said  Johnny.  "  You  never 
use  names,  do  you?  .  .  .  All  right,  you  can  go." 

And  she  went,  of  course.  It  was  not  in  her,  or  any 
woman,  to  stand  more.  He  had  used  the  whole  of  his 
resources,  every  art  he  possessed,  in  that  speech  for  the 
defense  of  tha  girl  she  detested :  in  the  lazy,  easy  opening, 
becoming  ever  swifter  and  fiercer  as  he  closed  in  on  her 
and  reached  the  end.  The  process  resembled  not  torture 
so  much  —  Johnny  could  not  torture  when  his  blood  was 
up,  however  he  might  wish  to  do  so  —  as  a  surgical  opera- 


238  THE  ACCOLADE 

tion.  He  fully  intended  to  hurt  her;  yet  that  he  was 
cutting  himself,  from  first  to  last,  even  more  deliberately 
than  her,  was  what  she  could  not  realize,  knowing  so  little 
of  his  private  longings,  or  of  his  peculiar  pride.  She  had 
never  cared  to  recognize  the  fact  that  John's  desire  for 
children,  for  any  child,  for  youth  about  him,  was  as  eager 
and  simple  as  hers  was  selfish  and  vain :  naturally  —  since 
it  was  one  of  the  admissions  that  must  shake  her  self- 
righteous  attitude  towards  him. 

She  was  almost  aghast,  in  consequence.  The  contrast 
he  depicted,  in  that  light  edged  tone,  was  too  complete,  too 
cruel,  with  their  own  conditions.  Heartless,  so  to  turn 
her  own  weapon  against  her,  so  to  carve  the  scene  he  had 
witnessed  on  her  brain,  that  all  night  long,  as  he  must 
have  known,  her  jealousy  would  rage  at  it  fruitlessly. 
And  that  when  she  was  stricken  already  by  his  faithless- 
ness, by  his  all  too  probable  desertion.  He  deserved 
nothing  of  her,  nothing.  All  means  of  resistance,  of 
retaliation,  would  be  justified,  when  he  could  treat  her, 
his  own  wife,  on  his  own  hearth,  like  that. 

She  swept  out,  still  and  stately,  pausing  to  put  her  work 
quietly  away  before  she  went.  As  a  display  of  her  own 
fixed  attitude  it  was  perfect ;  and  he  looked  on  at  it,  hope- 
lessly. 

"  Oh  Lord,"  he  soliloquized,  subsiding  after  his  dra- 
matic effort.  "  She  makes  me, —  I  can't  help  it,  Mother. 
Must  get  through  to  the  real  thing,  somehow.  I  expect 
I'm  a  beast." 

Having  uttered  this  excuse  aloud,  to  one  of  the  visions 
that  haunted  him,  he  lay  silent  for  a  period,  collapsed 
sidelong  in  his  chair,  his  restless  eyes  seeking  any  way  of 
escape  —  but  one  —  from  his  entanglement. 

"  Coward, —  she's  such  a  coward,"  he  asserted,  still  half 
aloud,  as  though  controverting  somebody.  "  And  such  a 
bat!  Blind  bat, —  with  claws, —  sticks  to  you,  bah!  .  .  . 
I  hate  bats,  darling, —  I  loathe  bat- women, —  don't  you?  " 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE  239 

It  was  an  appeal,  addressed  to  Helena's  white  glove, 
which  he  had  slipped  out  for  his  consolation,  and  was 
holding  against  his  cheek.  After  this  outbreak,  he  sat  for 
hours  into  the  morning,  fondling  the  supple  fabric  of  the 
glove,  and  considering. 


PART  IV 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER 


IT  was  conveyed  to  the  head  of  the  Ingestres  by  means  of 
a  well-written  note  that,  owing  to  her  mother-in-law's 
precarious  condition,  Ursula  had  postponed  her  cure  at 
Sophinebad  till  later  in  the  autumn.  She  thought  of 
accompanying  John  to  Routhwick  instead,  so  as  to  be 
within  easy  reach  of  telegrams.  She  hoped  this  plan 
would  meet  with  John's  father's  approval.  She  trusted 
dear  Mother  had  passed  —  and  so  forth. 

To  judge  by  the  grunt  with  which  John's  father  re- 
ceived the  message,  it  did  not  meet  with  his  approval  as 
entirely  as  Ursula  hoped. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  "  he  asked,  handing  the 
sheet  to  his  mother  across  the  breakfast-table.  "  Per- 
sonally I  say,  thank  you  for  nothing,  young  woman." 

"  You  will  have  to  be  more  civil  than  that  when  you 
reply  to  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  It  is  extremely  well 
expressed." 

"But  bad  policy,  hey?"  said  her  son.  "Mistaken  in 
the  case,  I  mean.  I  think  she's  wrong." 

"  I  think  she's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre  instantly. 
"  Routhwick's  healthy,  and  smart  doctors  are  notorious 
idiots.  Ursula  never  looks  so  well  as  when  she  has  been 
down  there." 

"  I'm  not  talking  of  health,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre. 
"  Routhwick's  healthy  enough.  Johnny'll  get  sick  of  the 
sight  of  her,  that's  what  I  mean,  if  she  sticks  to  him  like 
this.  A  bad  move,  I  call  it.  Better  to  give  him  a  rest." 

"  In  my  day,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  "  people  did  not  ask 
for  rests  from  their  wedded  wives, —  they  put  up  with 

243 


244  THE  ACCOLADE 

'em.  As  Johnny  has  brewed  he  must  bake,  and  she's  a 
thoroughly  nice  girl." 

"  Thoroughly,"  said  her  son  grimly.  He  glanced  at  the 
letter.  "  Why  can't  she  say  what  she's  up  to,  though  ? 
She  must  know  I  should  see  through  that.  She  doesn't 
care  a  button  for  Agatha,  never  did.  What's  the  good  of 
putting  it  on,  then?  It's  just  a  shade  slippery." 

"  You  might  allow  something  for  common  civility,"  said 
Mrs.  Ingestre. 

"  I  do,"  said  her  son.  "  I  always  allow  for  polite  lying. 
But  that's  not  polite, —  it's  offensive  to  common  sense." 

He  got  up,  and  took  the  note  away  with  him.  He 
answered  it  with  perfect  courtesy,  but  more  coldly  than 
his  wont.  He  liked  smartness,  and  admired  ingenuity, 
but  cunning  was  a  thing  he  detested,  and  he  had  marked 
again  the  shade  of  slyness  he  had  noted  before.  He  was 
sensitive  also,  for  the  moment,  to  slights  to  Agatha :  and 
the  rather  cloying  tone  of  condolence  in  the  note  did  not 
ring  true.  Lastly,  though  he  had  little  feeling  for  his  son 
at  common  times,  he  could  not  doubt  his  real  grief  at 
present.  He  suspected  that  Johnny's  instinct,  like  his 
own,  was  towards  solitude  in  sorrow ;  so  that,  even  from 
that  point  of  view,  it  was  bad  taste  in  Ursula  to  dog  him. 

"  She's  playing  for  her  own  hand,"  thought  the  man  of 
experience.  "  That's  how  she'll  go  through  life  probably, 
—  poor  Johnny !  " 

He  opened  by  the  same  post  a  note  from  Helena  Falk- 
land, enclosing  a  photograph  of  herself  as  Rosalind  he  had 
asked  for,  and  she  had  promised.  The  note  was  only  a 
couple  of  lines,  girlish  and  modest  in  style,  with  a  little 
joke  in  passing  in  reference  to  a  conversation  they  had 
had.  But  Mr.  Ingestre  dwelt  longer  than  was  necessary 
over  it  and  its  accompanying  picture,  the  grace  and 
strength  of  the  young  frame,  the  sweet  firm  lines  of  the 
face.  "  Perhaps  we  were  wrong,"  was  the  silent  result 
of  his  meditation :  but  he  did  not  say  it  aloud.  He  shut 
the  little  letter  safely  away,  and  enthroned  the  portrait  on 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  245 

his  writing-table.  Meanwhile,  the  dowager  Mrs.  In- 
gestre  made  her  way  to  Ursula. 

There  was,  between  her  and  Ursula,  a  certain  sympa- 
thy, owing  largely  to  the  fact  that  both  had  need  of  crit- 
icising Agatha.  Ursula,  as  we  have  said,  had  a  well- 
preserved  grudge  against  her  husband's  mother.  Mrs. 
Ingestre  had  merely  the  common  maternal  grudge  against 
any  female  who  presumed  to  marry  her  son.  It  was 
inconceivable  that  she  should  have  approved  any  daughter- 
in-law  completely:  and  perhaps  Agatha,  on  the  whole, 
had  stood  wear  as  well  as  any  victim  the  old  lady  could 
have  selected.  The  fact  that  such  a  critic  found  so  few 
weaknesses,  in  the  end,  to  deal  with,  spoke  more  than 
volumes  of  flattery  in  Agatha's  favor.  The  word  "  blue- 
stocking "  really  summed  them  all :  and  that  fine  old  term, 
in  our  day,  has  perforce  lost  some  of  its  bitterness.  But 
Mrs.  Ingestre  consoled  herself  by  never  granting  Agatha's 
virtues  except  grudgingly.  A  blue-stocking,  as  such,  is 
necessarily  incapable  of  fulfilling  an  ordinary  woman's 
duties  in  life :  much  less  the  duty  required  towards  the 
head  of  the  Ingestre  family.  Mrs.  Ingestre,  in  conse~ 
quence,  discounted  Agatha's  best  efforts  always. 

As,  for  instance,  when  her  grandchild's  birth  was  an- 
nounced to  her,  she  said  —  "  Oh,  she's  managed  it,  has 
she  ?  A  girl,  I  suppose." 

When  she  was  informed  it  was,  on  the  contrary,  a  fine 
son,  she  said  instantly  —  "  She'll  spoil  it.  Keep  the 
whip-hand  for  your  wife,  John,  or  the  child  will  be  ruined 
by  her  fads." 

When  Mr.  Ingestre's  "  whip-hand  "  failed  signally  to 
keep  the  young  man  in  the  ways  of  his  fathers  at  eighteen 
years  old,  Mrs.  Ingestre  pointed  to  Agatha  again  as  the 
secret  promoter  of  discord.  Johnny's  tame  submission, 
on  the  other  hand,  perplexed  and  troubled  her  mightily, 
until  she  found  a  comfortable  explanation  for  it  in  a  senti- 
mentality derived  from  his  mother's  family,  which  would 
certainly  weaken  and  dilute  the  Ingestre  stock. 


246  THE  ACCOLADE 

Since  Agatha  had  deprecated  the  Thynne  connection, 
Mrs.  Ingestre  had  been  strong  in  promoting  it,  and  found 
endless  virtues  for  Ursula  during  engagement  and  the 
early  period  of  marriage.  Since  then  her  favor  had 
wearied  slightly ;  but  it  sprang  up  in  force  whenever  she 
perceived  injustice  being  done  to  the  girl.  Her  son's 
remarks  at  the  breakfast-table  had  awakened  this  con- 
trary spirit :  and  she  paid  Ursula  the  honor  of  a  visit  that 
same  afternoon. 

"  How  kind  of  you,  Grandmamma,"  said  Ursula,  taking 
great  pains  with  her  enunciation.  "  This  is  Mr.  Au- 
beron." 

"  I  have  had  the  honor,"  murmured  Mr.  Auberon, 
standing  very  straight  and  looking  conscious. 

"Have  you?"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  shooting  her  sharp 
glance  at  him.  "  When  ?  " 

"  I  was  with  Miss  Falkland  that  day  in  the  Park  when 
you  — "  "  spiked  us," —  Quentin  was  inclined  to  say. 

"  So  you  were,"  Mrs.  Ingestre  nodded,  recollecting,  for 
her  memory  was  remarkable.  "  My  grandson  told  me 
then  that  Ursula  knew  your  family."  She  took  a  general 
view  of  the  youth,  and  found  him  "  presentable,"  as  she 
had  done  before.  "  I  knew  an  Auberon  once,"  she  re- 
marked. "  Hugh, —  a  rogue  he  was." 

"  That's  my  father,"  said  Quentin. 

"  Indeed  it  wasn't,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  Your  grand- 
father, perhaps." 

"  My  grandfather's  name  was  Quentin." 

"  Quentin  ?  Yes,  there  was  a  Quentin  too, —  they  were 
brothers.  Couldn't  forget  a  name  like  that,"  she  added. 

"  It's  Mr.  Auberon's  name  as  well,"  said  Ursula,  secure 
that  her  visitor  was  pleasing.  "  Do  you  like  it,  Grand- 
mamma ?  " 

"  Romantical  a  trifle,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  Hugh's 
better:  I  like  short  names.  Short  names  for  men,  and 
long  for  women.  My  mother  was  called  Eleonora, — 
there's  no  more  beautiful  name  than  that." 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  247 

"  Helena  is  more  beautiful,"  said  Quentin  boldly. 

"  It's  the  name  of  a  great  beauty,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre 
drily.  "  I  don't  allude  to  Miss  Falkland, —  there  was 
another  once  before.  She  made  a  lot  of  mischief,  the 
other  one  did." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  imply "  laughed  Quentin. 

"  I  don't  imply  anything  against  a  pretty  girl,  above  all 
in  a  young  man's  presence."  Mrs.  Ingestre,  greatly 
pleased  with  her  wit,  turned  to  Ursula.  "  Take  my  cloak, 
my  dear :  your  room's  too  hot." 

For  the  next  twenty  minutes,  the  dowager  talked  ex- 
clusively to  Mr.  Auberon,  and  left  out  Ursula  altogether. 
This  means,  of  course,  that  she  fell  in  love.  It  is  easy  for 
a  very  old  lady  to  fall  in  love  with  a  very  young  man, 
well-made  and  well-mannered,  who  takes  the  trouble  to 
be  agreeable.  Nor  was  Mrs.  Ingestre  averse  to  sense  and 
a  well-made  brain  in  man, —  the  Ingestres  were  not  fools ; 
nor  to  the  fact  that  a  great-uncle  who  was  a  rogue,  at 
some  indefinite  period  of  the  past,  had  introduced  him. 
It  speaks  well  for  the  standing  of  a  family  to  have  rogues 
two  generations  back:  and  the  whole  appearance  of  this 
boy  spoke  well  for  the  family's  future.  Mrs.  Ingestre 
was  pleased :  and  since  he  was  kind  and  clear,  she  was 
puzzled  by  nothing, —  a  great  advantage  in  talking  to  his 
age, —  except  one  point,  that  she  instantly  brought  up, 
when  he  had  taken  his  departure.  She  swept  aside 
Ursula's  attempt  to  win  commendation  for  her  protege, 
in  order  to  make  this  point. 

"  Did  you  understand,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  that  he, 
and  that  girl,  and  a  brother  of  hers,  were  to  make  a 
tour?" 

"  Yes,  Grandmamma.     In  the  Lakes,  so  he  said." 

"  Was  her  father  to  be  of  the  party  ?  " 

"  No,  just  the  young  people,  I  think.  Walking,  you 
know." 

"  I  know  very  well.  And  striding  over  rocks,  and 
sleeping  at  inns,  I  presume, —  and  bathing  in  company, 


248  THE  ACCOLADE 

one  might  almost  gather.  He  must  be  engaged  to  her," 
said  Mrs.  Ingestre. 

"  Not  quite,  I  think,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Well,  he  will  be,  before  the  tour  is  out.  Not  that  it 
makes  it  any  better,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre  bitterly.  "  The 
mother  must  be  out  of  her  mind." 

"  People  do  it,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Maybe.  They  don't,  with  a  girl  like  that.  Have  you 
seen  the  girl  ?  " 

"Often,"  said  Ursula.  "We  know  her.  She  acted 
here." 

"  Acts,  does  she  ?    I  hadn't  heard  that.     Acts  well  ?  " 

"  Charmingly,  I  thought " 

"What  did  John  think?"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre,  cutting 
across  her;  and  after  five  minutes'  strict  examination,  in 
the  course  of  which  Ursula  was  badly  harried,  concluded 
— "  Rubbishy,  in  short :  why  not  have  said  so  ?  "  Then, 
more  pleased  with  herself  than  ever,  she  proceeded, 
"  Johnny's  been  gallivanting  with  her,  so  they  say." 

"  Oh,  the  usual  thing,"  said  Ursula. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  said  the  dowager,  fix- 
ing her. 

"  Johnny  won't  be  left  out,  you  know  what  he  is.  So 
many  people  admire  Miss  Falkland.  Of  course  he  had  to 
see  a  lot  of  her  over  the  acting,  and  she  dances  rather 
well.  That  alone  is  enough  for  Johnny." 

There  was  a  pause  while  the  old  lady  took  in  the  gen- 
eral bearing  of  this.  "  You  think  there's  no  danger, 
then  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Ursula  coolly,  "  I  daresay  her  mother 
is  wise  to  engage  her  to  a  nice  man  as  soon  as  possible. 
Girls  of  that  age  are  silly.  Will  you  have  some  more  tea, 
Grandmamma  ? "  While  she  manipulated  the  tea- 
service,  she  added,  with  the  same  imperturbability  — 
"  And  of  course  John  encourages  her, —  he's  so  vain." 

"  Encourages  ? "  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  The  world's 
getting  upset  with  a  vengeance.  It  was  the  men  pre- 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  249 

sumed,  and  the  girls  encouraged,  in  time."  She  looked 
closely  at  Ursula  with  her  keen  little  old  eyes.  "  So  you 
think  Johnny  lets  himself  be  wooed,  do  you  ?  "  she  said 
sardonically. 

"  Oh,  don't  put  it  like  that !  "  Ursula  took  it  smiling. 
"  You  know  what  he  is,  that's  all.  Give  John  an  inch, 
and  he'll  take  an  ell."  Before  Mrs.  Ingestre  could  inter- 
vene, she  proceeded.  "  He's  got  a  glove  of  hers,  I  know 
that.  I  told  him  he  ought  to  give  it  back  again.  I  think 
flirting  should  stop  short  of  stealing  gloves,  don't  you, 
Grandmamma  ?  They're  so  expensive." 

"  You  told  him  he  ought  to  give  it  back,  did  you  ?  " 
said  the  old  lady,  once  more  taking  a  keen  survey  of 
John's  wife  as  she  brought  the  tea.  She  felt  the  insin- 
cerity of  her  attitude  vaguely,  in  this  affair  that  had  so 
disturbed  John's  family:  together  with  its  injustice  im- 
plied to  the  girl  she  had  seen  in  the  Park  that  day.  But 
she  was  puzzled  simultaneously  by  the  steadiness  of 
Ursula's  serenity:  and  being  puzzled,  gave  herself  a  rest. 

"  Men  used  to  pay  wagers  with  gloves,"  she  said,  di- 
verting to  reminiscence.  "  My  niece  Eveleen  used  to  get 
dozens, —  kept  herself  in  gloves  that  way.  She  always 
won  her  wagers, — "  the  old  lady  chuckled  a  little  at 
recollections  of  that  favorite  niece  — "  or  else  they  were 
afraid  to  tell  her  she  had  lost  them.  That's  likely 
enough." 

"  That's  Violet  Shovell's  mother,  isn't  it?  "  said  Ursula. 
"  Well,  nowadays  John  snatches  Violet's  gloves  to  make 
things  even."  She  paused.  "  All  the  same,  Grand- 
mamma, I  never  can  help  thinking  there's  something  on 
the  other  side  when  men  do  things  like  that.  Johnny 
wouldn't,  I  mean,  with  everybody." 

"  Encouragement,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre  curtly.  "  That's 
what  you  mean.  You  dislike  Violet, —  needn't  tell  me 
that." ' 

This  sudden  keenness  disconcerted  Ursula.  But  it  was 
only  momentary,  a  little  stamp,  instinctive  on  the  old 


250  THE  ACCOLADE 

tyrant's  part,  on  Ursula's  pretension  in  advancing  a  judg- 
ment in  her  presence.  She  sipped  her  tea  and  finished  at 
leisure. 

"  But  she's  a  nice  little  pretty  girl  for  all  that,  and  a 
good  wife,  as  present-day  women  go.  I  am  going  there 
to  enquire,  when  I  leave  you." 

After  that,  Mrs.  Ingestre  returned  to  Quentin  Auberon, 
and  the  question  of  Helena's  engagement,  contentedly. 
That,  being  as  she  thought  her  own  idea,  was  the  thing 
that  had  really  taken  hold  of  her.  It  was  relief  unspeak- 
able to  Ursula  to  have  thus  forestalled  the  old  lady's 
knife-like  prying  —  for  of  course  she  had  come  to  pry  — 
by  this  happy  chance.  To  start  a  rumor  before  the  season 
closed  that  the  conspicuous  girl  was  engaged  —  even 
though  it  should  be  a  rumor  merely  —  must  be  balm  to 
Ursula's  sore  pride,  and  assist  her  determined  attitude. 
Considering  Mrs.  Ingestre's  gift  for  gossip,  she  saw  every 
opportunity  of  doing  so. 

Chances  were  all  for  her.  Mrs.  Ingestre  had  seen 
Helena  first  in  Quentin's  company, —  his  first  mention  of 
her  in  Ursula's  house  had  been  to  admire  her  name. 
They  were  known  to  be  constantly  together,  even  to  live 
beneath  the  same  roof.  The  young  man  had  a  bearing 
of  ease  and  confidence  that  was  reassuring,  and  was  a 
parti  any  family  would  approve.  The  Lakeland  tour  was 
the  finishing  touch,  conclusive  to  Mrs.  Ingestre's  ideas: 
Ursula  really  blessed  Helena's  brother  for  having  thought 
of  it. 

Best  of  all,  for  Ursula's  credit,  Mrs.  Ingestre,  though 
acute,  was  old.  The  very  old,  however,  well-dowered 
originally,  cannot  entertain  more  than  one  idea  fully  at  a 
time.  Before  the  picture  of  Quentin,  now  impressed  on 
her  mind,  the  picture  of  Johnny  —  the  dangler  after 
beauty,  snatching  a  young  girl's  glove  for  a  joke,  and 
being  "  told  "  to  return  it  —  could  not  seriously  stand. 
Mrs.  Ingestre  dropped  it  in  catching  at  the  new  interest. 
She  also  carried  away  a  strong  impression  that  Ursula's 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  251 

terms  with  her  husband  must  be  better  than  the  family  had 
imagined. 

Nor  had  she  a  chance  of  revising  any  of  these  impres- 
sions, for,  as  she  expected,  her  great-niece  Mrs.  Shovell 
refused  her.  So  Mrs.  Ingestre  "  enquired " :  that  is, 
pried  on  her  doorstep  for  a  period,  and  plagued  her  do- 
mestics. She  extracted,  with  great  labor,  the  fact  that 
Violet  had  gone  out  to  Lady  Weyburn's  the  night  before, 
and  come  home  late,  and  tired.  So  she  bade  the  indig- 
nant parlor-maid  tell  her  mistress  she  was  a  little  fool, 
always  trying  to  do  twice  as  much  as  was  suitable  or  pru- 
dent; and  drove  home,  contented  with  her  day's  work. 
She  stopped  half-way  at  a  florist's,  whence  she  dispatched 
flowers,  with  her  love,  to  Mrs.  Shovell.  For  Eveleen 
Ingestre's  daughter,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  was 
necessarily  more  interesting  than  General  Thynne's :  and 
she  was  a  direct  descendant  of  the  elder  line  as  well. 


ii 

Harold  Falkland,  who  seldom  disturbed  Quentin  with 
family  problems,  gave  him  a  pretty  broad  hint,  on  the  day 
following  Lady  Weyburn's  ball,  as  to  the  state  of  things 
with  Helena.  Quentin  had  already  taken  warning  on  his 
own  account  from  the  girl's  appearance,  which  changed 
in  the  course  of  a  week, —  a  very  hot  week  certainly, — 
from  the  rather  hectic  vivacity  of  strong  excitement  to  an 
extraordinary  slackness  and  dejection.  He  did  not  like 
either  state,  they  were  so  different  from  the  equable  cordi- 
ality of  the  girl  he  knew :  so  he  was  not  much  surprised 
at  Harold's  confidence  concerning  a  misplaced  attachment, 
with  a  "  cad  "  lurking  somewhere  in  the  background,  un- 
named. 

He  was  sorry,  and  said  so  briefly :  but  what  he  said  did 
not  seem  to  satisfy  Harold.  Harold  seemed  longing, 
during  the  period  of  their  private  interview,  to  get  on  to 
something  else ;  but  for  all  his  celebrated  ingenuity,  he  did 


252  THE  ACCOLADE 

not  succeed  in  conveying  it.  The  most  noted  diplomat 
might  indeed  find  it  hard  to  convey  to  another  party  that 
he  would  like  him  for  a  brother-in-law,  as  soon  as  con- 
veniently possible:  and  that  was  what  Harold  longed  to 
do.  It  never  seemed  to  enter  Auberon's  head  that  he 
could  have  solved  the  situation,  in  his  own  person,  easily. 

The  fact  was,  Quentin  had  his  vexations  at  the  time, 
and  though  he  was  sympathetic  about  the  Falklands' 
problems,  he  was  really  more  concerned  about  his  own. 

His  aunt's  return  from  the  south  relieved  him  of  im- 
mediate responsibility  concerning  the  girl  Jill,  and  he  was 
only  glad  to  be  quit  of  it.  But  of  the  abiding  problem  of 
her  situation  as  regarded  Jacoby  the  rat,  he  was  not 
relieved,  because  he  did  not  choose  to  be.  He  left  his 
aunt  her  side  of  the  work,  which  was  the  girl,  but  almost 
immediately  he  took  up  his,  for  he  did  not  consider  Miss 
Havant  qualified  to  deal  with  it,  or  at  least  as  properly 
qualified  as  he  was.  That  he  disliked  such  business  pro- 
foundly was  no  bar  to  his  determination,  rather  the  re- 
verse. Miss  Havant  was  only  thankful  on  her  side  to 
deliver  the  burden  of  Jacoby  into  his  hands.  Like  most 
capable  detached  females,  she  had  had  to  forego  man's 
assistance  in  life  too  often,  not  to  value  the  luxury  when 
it  was  offered  her :  and  young  as  Quentin  was,  she  trusted 
him. 

Quentin  saw  Jacoby  twice  in  person,  having  twice 
sought  him  in  vain.  In  the  first  of  these  interviews  he 
impressed  on  him  the  necessity  of  leaving  his  daughter  in 
peace  to  make  her  way,  so  far  as  it  might  still  be  possible. 
He  used  to  the  full  on  the  occasion  his  own  prestige,  and 
the  naturally  authoritative  Auberon  manner,  and  then 
hated  himself  for  it  when  he  saw  the  little  rat  of  a  man 
cower  from  him,  offer  him  flattery  and  obsequious 
promises,  no  word  of  which  Quentin  found  himself  able 
to  believe.  The  natural  impulse  that  possessed  him  was  to 
stamp  this  obvious  failure  out  of  existence,  to  end  him  as 
one  ends  a  cockroach,  there  and  then.  Yet  he  was  once 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  253 

more  glad,  on  returning  to  the  healthy  Falkland  commun- 
ity, that  he  had  reached  to  the  knot  of  the  complication, 
the  root  of  the  evil,  in  person :  seen  him,  addressed  him, 
and  gathered  up  the  facts.  Though,  as  need  hardly  be 
stated,  the  facts  concerning  Jacoby  were  grit  and  ashes  in 
an  Auberon  mouth. 

Jacoby  was  still  living  on  the  woman,  Quentin  discov- 
ered, with  whom  he  had  fled  from  Geneva.  He  had 
quarreled  with  her  once,  but  managed  to  conciliate  her 
subsequently.  He  had  not  ventured  after  all  to  show  his 
face  at  Geneva,  and  such  "  pickings  "  as  he  could  claim 
from  his  wife's  small  inheritance,  and  the  transfer  of  the 
house,  were  sent  to  him  by  Miss  Havant,  who  settled  up 
her  former  friend's  affairs.  On  the  money  derived  from 
these  two  sources,  and  on  a  loan  he  had  wrung  from 
Quentin,  he  was  living  for  the  minute  in  tolerable  ease, — 
far  greater  ease  than  he  deserved.  All  the  above  facts, 
with  the  exception  of  the  last, —  his  own  advance  to  the 
man, —  Quentin  shared  with  his  aunt;  and  such  was  his 
address  and  high-handedness  in  carrying  through  this 
unaccustomed  business,  that  it  was  years  before  she  dis- 
covered how,  drained  by  the  ingenious  little  rat,  he 
crippled  his  own  resources  at  the  time.  Nobody  learned 
of  it,  since  he  preferred  to  bear  the  burden  of  his  experi- 
ments alone. 

Nothing  he  could  do,  however,  in  the  way  of  counsel  or 
persuasion,  would  induce  Jacoby  himself  to  take  up  work. 
All  his  attempts  failed  there.  Jacoby  did  not  want  to 
work.  Quentin  could  only  suppose  that  he  had  never 
found  it  necessary.  The  man's  physical  condition  re- 
volted him,  and  he  did  his  best  to  spur  him  to  undertake 
something  active,  if  only  to  improve  his  health.  He  con- 
sulted various  people,  including  Ursula  Ingestre,  about 
trades  for  Jacoby, —  he  even  attacked  Harold  Falkland's 
brother-in-law,  the  sleek  and  egregious  Thomas. 
Thomas,  abominably  patronizing  in  tone,  suggested  agri- 
culture and  emigration.  Quentin's  opinion  was  that  our 


254  THE  ACCOLADE 

colonies  were  sufficiently  plagued  with  ne'er-do-weel  rats 
already.  Thomas  then  yawned  and  said  the  only  thing  he 
could  think  of  for  Jacoby  was  that  he  should  marry  a  rich 
widow.  Which  was  so  near  to  Jacoby's  own  ideal  of  a 
successful  existence,  that  it  classed  Thomas  at  once,  in 
Harold's  judgment,  as  one  of  the  rat  fraternity. 

That  which  vexed  Quentin's  soul  above  all  was  that  the 
insufferable  Jacoby  had  got  hold, —  he  could  not  think 
how, —  of  Jill's  success  at  the  Ingestres'  party,  and  the 
interest  there  expressed  in  her  by  the  professional  lady, 
Mrs.  Mitchell.  Quentin  really  had  thought  he  was  the 
only  person  to  know  of  that, —  he  had  not  mentioned  it 
even  to  Jill,  lest  he  should  have  to  disappoint  her.  The 
rat's  methods  were  beyond  investigation ;  yet,  like  others 
of  his  kind,  he  had  always  haunted  the  theatrical  world  a 
good  deal,  and  he  might  have  chanced  upon  some  of  John 
Ingestre's  half-and-half  acquaintance.  It  proved  a  fatal 
chance,  for  Jill.  Mrs.  Mitchell  had  written  twice  very 
kindly  to  Quentin,  assuring  him  that  she  had  the  girl  in 
mind,  and  would  see  what  could  be  done  for  her  when  the 
season  reopened.  Alas,  it  was  borne  in  upon  Mr.  Jacoby 
that  he  had  had  this  promising  situation  to  deal  with,  once 
before  in  history.  He  had  worked  his  daughter's  first 
training  at  the  expense  of  various  kind  persons  who  had 
heard  her  recite  in  Switzerland  at  the  English  hotels. 
Now,  setting  out  to  make  the  most  of  Mrs.  Mitchell  in 
turn,  he  waylaid  Mrs.  Mitchell's  hot-tempered  husband  at 
his  theater,  with  quite  disastrous  results.  Mrs.  Mitchell 
sent  a  note  of  warning  to  Quentin ;  and  Quentin,  who 
really  had  had  high  hopes  from  the  connection,  let  his  own 
temper  go  in  an  interview  with  Jacoby.  The  man  seemed 
to  have  the  fatal  trick  of  ruining,  soiling  everything  he 
touched.  Mr.  Auberon,  struggling  against  a  strong  in- 
clination to  kick  Jacoby  into  the  nearest  pond,  and  so  free 
the  girl  of  her  incumbrance  forever,  renewed  his  vigorous 
warning  against  tampering  with  her  in  her  new-found 
home,  and  went  back  to  his  own,  rather  disheartened. 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  255 

It  was  about  this  time  he  received  a  somewhat 
extraordinary  note  from  old  Miss  Darcy,  requesting  him 
to  pay  her  a  visit.  Not  that  there  was  anything  unusual 
in  the  fact,  for  the  old  bearded  lady  liked  him,  and  he 
called  there  now  and  again,  when  he  could  find  the  time. 
Whenever  he  did  so,  he  had  a  glimpse  of  Jill,  sometimes 
a  few  words  with  her,  but  little  more ;  for  Miss  Darcy  did 
not  encourage  her  "  general  servant "  to  intrude  when  she 
had  visitors.  Miss  Darcy  was  kind  but,  owing  to  her 
blue  blood,  strict  in  her  ideas.  The  work  of  the  world 
ran  smoother,  she  considered,  if  people  kept  their  places, 
and,  fond  as  she  was  of  Jill,  she  had  never  gathered  that 
her  antecedents  were  so  lofty,  that  she  need  scruple  to 
treat  her  as  one  treats  a  superior  maid.  Needless  to  say, 
Jill  thought  otherwise ;  but  she  contained  herself  in  her 
manner,  and  served  Miss  Darcy  with  proud  exactitude 
and  well-acted  humility,  hugging  her  superiority  all  the 
while. 

Once  only,  when  he  came,  Quentin  found  her  in  the 
front  room,  reading  to  Miss  Darcy,  and  remained  there 
for  the  better  part  of  an  hour,  immovable,  to  attend.  Jill, 
who  had  been  disgusted  to  find  him  so  little  impressed 
with  her  beautiful  acting  of  his  somewhat  overrated 
dramatist  Shakespeare,  had  a  second  and  better  chance; 
for  it  happened  she  was  reading  a  comedy  of  Moliere, 
and  she  read  it  exquisitely.  She  made  both  her  hearers 
laugh  constantly,  without  a  smile  herself,  only  throwing  a 
glance  at  the  visitor  from  time  to  time,  to  make  certain 
that  she  was  rising  in  his  estimation.  It  was, —  as  later 
the  evidence  of  her  own  journal  proved, —  without  excep- 
tion the  happiest  half-hour  of  her  life. 

To  return  to  the  present,  what  was  extraordinary  in 
Miss  Darcy's  note  was  its  agitated  style  and  circumlocu- 
tion, strongly  suggesting  an  attack  of  nerves  in  the  writer. 
Miss  Darcy  was  most  subject  to  these,  as  he  knew,  for  Jill 
complained  of  them.  He  made  allowances  himself,  for 
he  was  very  sorry  for  the  poor  old  lady,  restricted  to  a 


256  THE  ACCOLADE 

small  society  of  her  intellectual  and  social  inferiors,  who 
misjudged  and  laughed  at  her;  delighted  always  to  talk 
with  intelligent  people,  but  rarely  getting  the  chance.  So, 
imagining  some  such  origin  for  the  request,  since  he  hap- 
pened to  be  free  that  Sunday  morning,  Quentin  went. 

He  went  at  an  appointed  hour,  and  Jill  was  at  church. 
Her  mother,  through  good  times  and  bad,  had  brought 
her  up  a  Churchwoman,  and  Miss  Darcy's  own  tenets 
being  exceedingly  strict  and  "  high,"  the  girl's  former 
habits  of  devotion  were  now  fostered.  Always  inclined 
to  tremble  when  Jill  was  beyond  her  wing,  Miss  Darcy 
was  sure  of  her  being  safe  in  church,  which  was  an  addi- 
tional advantage. 

Quentin  could  make  nothing  of  Miss  Darcy  for  at  least 
half  the  interview,  though  he  soothed  and  talked  to  her  as 
calmly  as  he  could.  She  was  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  over 
something,  such  that  even  his  healthy  nerves  found  it 
hard  to  bear.  He  could  not  conceive  what  the  matter 
was,  for  she  talked  persistently  of  everything  else  in  the 
world,  for  long.  Then,  quite  suddenly  and  apropos  of 
nothing,  she  alluded  to  Mrs.  Ingestre. 

"  You  know  her,  eh  ?  "  she  said. 

Quentin  assented,  and  Miss  Darcy's  harassed  face 
cleared. 

"  Well  then,  you  know  what  she  is, —  wise,  generous, 
broad-minded,  honorable, —  one  of  the  elect." 

Quentin  was  rather  amazed  to  hear  Ursula  qualified  by 
these  and  other  terms:  for  Miss  Darcy,  clutching  his 
knee  with  a  gnarled  hand,  quite  lost  herself  in  high- 
sounding  encomiums. 

"  She  is  generous,  I  know,"  he  said  gently. 

"  Generous  ?  She  does  good  by  her  existence !  And 
she  has  lived,"  said  Miss  Darcy,  grasping  his  knee,  "  a 
most  unhappy  life.  I  know, —  mind,  I  alone, —  how 
much,  for  I  lived  with  her,  the  happiest  time  of  my  life, 
though  I  fear  not  the  happiest  of  hers.  Her  hus- 
band   "  She  ceased,  and  shook  her  head. 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  257 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  the  sort,"  said  Quentin. 

"  Young  man,"  said  Miss  Darcy,  with  wonderful  feel- 
ing, "  your  life  is  all  to  come.  Beware,  you  and  others, 
what  kind  of  woman  you  choose  to  play  with  ;  because  you 
will  regret  it,  as  he  most  surely  does  by  now,  too  late." 

"Too  late?"  Quentin  was  startled.  "Mrs.  Ingestre 
is  not  ill,  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  dying,"  barked  Miss  Darcy.  Then,  at  his  look 
of  horror,  she  tracked  the  error  with  intelligent  prompti- 
tude. 

"  Ah,  ah, —  you  thought  of  Ursula.  I  always  forget 
Ursula  can  be  called  by  that  name  too.  Yes,  yes :  and  I 
know  they  talk  of  the  boy  playing, —  but  not  I.  Johnny 
has  something  of  his  mother's  spirit,  and  he  has  always 
been  kind  to  me." 

Quentin  made  his  apology.  "  I  have  not  met  Ingestre's 
mother,"  he  said.  "  I  have  heard  my  Mrs.  Ingestre  talk 
of  her,  that's  all." 

"  Ah !  —  that  is  not  the  same."  Miss  Darcy  waited  a 
minute  and  seemed  to  listen.  "  Well,"  she  resumed  with  a 
sigh,  "  you  must  believe  me,  then,  not  knowing  Agatha. 
It  is  only,  if  you  knew  her,  you  might  understand.  I 
would  cut  off  my  right  hand  for  Agatha  —  still,  I  would 
do  it  still.  Instead  of  that — "  She  waited  and  listened 
anew.  "  Is  that  the  child  coming?  Tell  me  if  you  hear 
the  child.  .  .  .  Listen.  Agatha  gave  me  many  beautiful 
things,  memories  mostly,  memories  of  her.  And,  listen, 
—  one  thing  to  guard  for  her, —  it  is  not  mine.  I  held  — 
I  hold  it  in  trust  for  her  and  Johnny.  You  know  the 
thing  I  speak  of  ?  —  I  have  mentioned  it, —  yes." 

Quentin  did  not  know,  the  least ;  but  he  waited,  not 
to  worry  her,  sure  that  it  would  come  out. 

"  A  painted  woman,  that  boy  said  to  tease  me.  A  little 
Marechale  somebody, —  he  knew  the  history, —  I  didn't 
care  to  know.  Hold  your  tongue  —  I  said  —  dragging 
dead  scandals  out  of  the  dust-heaps :  hold  your  impudent 
tongue,  and  use  your  eyes  if  you  have  them.  .  .  .  But 


258  THE  ACCOLADE 

he'd  sooner  use  his  eyes  on  the  originals,"  she  broke  off, 
"  I  know  him.  Do  you  know  Johnny  ?  "  She  snapped  at 
Quentin  suddenly. 

"  I've  met  him,"  said  Quentin,  who  began  to  see  light 
slowly. 

"  Met  him  ?  And  he  amused  you  ?  Ah,  but  he's  hard 
to  know.  He'll  catch  a  likeness  in  a  miniature  to  a  girl 
he  knows  —  a  living  girl  —  this  cousin  or  that  he's  danced 
with  —  and  good-night  to  the  rest.  That's  what  it  is  to 
be  young  —  a  treasure  of  treasures  too !  Why,  the  pearls 
alone  would  have  paid  my  house-rent  for  a  year, —  and 
he  said  I'd  stolen  it,  the  rascal !  Stolen,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

Quentin  had  a  shock :  but  with  the  strange  anguish  of 
her  tone,  the  situation  came  clear  to  him.  At  that  point 
of  her  rambling  discourse,  it  would  be  fair  to  say  he 
divined  the  whole.  His  hostess  had  lost,  or  thought  she 
had  lost,  this  "  treasure "  she  spoke  of,  trusted  to  her 
expert  care  by  the  benefactor  and  friend.  She  was  over- 
come, out  of  her  mind,  at  the  mere  vision  of  such  a  be- 
trayal of  her  trust,  and  at  such  a  moment  above  all.  Like 
all  extremely  nervous  subjects,  Miss  Darcy  could  not  in 
her  emotion  trust  her  own  senses,  and  she  wanted  the 
support  of  his.  That  explained  her  private  summons,  and 
her  pitiful  agitation,  very  simply.  Only,  why  his,  not 
Jill's?  It  crossed  his  mind  promptly  to  wonder  why. 

His  surmise  was  quickly  justified.  Miss  Darcy  sought, 
or  rather  produced,  a  little  key.  She  had  actually  been 
holding  it  all  the  time  in  the  palm  of  her  shaking  hand. 
She  handed  it  to  her  visitor,  and  directed  him  to  a  certain 
cabinet,  clamped  to  the  wall,  as  Quentin  happened  to  per- 
ceive. He  asked  which  drawer,  and  she  told  him  the  top 
one.  The  top  one  was  empty,  he  explained.  It  must  be 
the  second  then,  she  said.  The  second  was  full.  Quen- 
tin went  through  innumerable  little  packets  of  soft  paper, 
and  softer  wool,  all  most  daintily  wrapped  and  clearly 
labeled, —  scraps  she  had  saved  from  her  father's  lordly 
collection  in  old  days.  He  would  fain  have  lingered  over 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  259 

some  of  them,  but  could  not,  in  kindness.  There  was  no 
miniature  in  any,  and  so  he  told  her,  in  the  firm  easy  man- 
ner that  seemed  to  reassure  her  best. 

"  The  third ! "  barked  Miss  Darcy,  watching  him  with 
anguished  eyes.  He  knew  at  once  the  third  drawer  was 
where  the  beloved  portrait  ought  to  be.  It  went  to  his 
heart  to  see  the  efforts  the  poor  old  creature  made  to  act 
indifference,  when  he  was  forced  to  tell  her,  that  among 
the  many  miniatures  in  the  third  drawer,  there  was  none 
with  a  pearl  frame. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  she  said,  "  then  I  have  put  it  somewhere. 
My  memory's  getting  so  bad.  It's  because  I  sleep  so 
poorly  —  insomnia  —  young  folk  never  know  the  torment 
of  that.  I  cannot  send  you  to  hunt  in  my  bedroom, — 
no.  Well,  well,  then  I  must  show  you  another  day." 

Her  simple  anguish  was  evident  at  his  failure  to  find 
the  thing  she  had  already,  probably,  sought  in  every 
corner  of  her  orderly  collections  in  vain.  It  troubled 
Quentin  to  leave  her  in  such  a  condition,  but  he  saw  not 
how  he  could  enquire  more.  He  knew  already  from  Jill 
that  she  suffered  from  sleeplessness  cruelly,  and  had  tried 
innumerable  cures  for  it  in  vain  ;  and  this  loss,  if  it  proved 
to  be  one  in  reality,  was  enough  to  craze  if  not  to  kill  her, 
he  privately  thought.  Yet  the  responsibility  was  certainly 
hers,  and  he  could  take  no  steps  to  help  without  imper- 
tinence, beyond  those  she  required  of  him.  He  had  a 
strong  impression  always  of  her  innate  honor  and  dignity, 
delicacy  also,  broken  as  she  was ;  and  he  saw  she  wished, 
insofar  as  it  was  possible,  to  stand  alone.  The  matter  lay 
between  her  and  the  Ingestre  family :  no  third  party  could 
properly  intervene. 

Outside  Miss  Darcy's  dwelling,  in  the  backwater  of  the 
old  London  square,  he  lingered  deliberately,  intending  to 
catch  Jill  coming  back  from  church.  The  church  was  just 
round  the  corner,  he  could  see  its  spire,  and  the  hour  made 
it  probable  the  congregation  would  soon  be  out.  His 


2<5o  THE  ACCOLADE 

design,  clear  to  himself  as  always,  was  to  judge  how  far 
Jill  had  penetrated  Miss  Darcy's  state  of  secret  woe,  and 
whether  she  had  been  allowed  to  guess  its  origin  in  the 
portrait's  loss.  Not  of  Miss  Darcy's  own  accord,  he  was 
certain,  having  thought  over  the  matter.  She  was  really 
fond  of  the  girl,  and  for  nothing  in  the  world  would  she 
let  Jill  suppose  that  blame  or  suspicion  might  attach  to 
her.  On  the  other  hand,  Miss  Jill  was  very  sharp,  and 
her  patroness  feeble  and  not  always  mistress  of  herself, 
when  her  nerves  were  out  of  gear.  The  girl  might  at 
least  be  able  to  throw  some  light  upon  the  subject. 

There  Quentin  stopped,  in  order  to  look  into  his  own 
feelings.  It  would  not  do  to  let  himself  drift  into  a 
cynical  attitude  towards  the  girl.  He  waited,  where  a 
tree  of  the  square  garden  overhung  the  paling,  for  it  was 
a  very  warm  day.  He  was  asking  himself,  as  often  be- 
fore, what  he  really  thought  of  her:  why  his  judgment 
did  not  cry  out  at  once,  as  his  aunt's  or  his  sister's  would 
have  done,  at  the  idea  of  her  being  suspected  of  a  common 
theft. 

It  was,  he  could  only  believe,  that  she  was  different  in 
his  company  from  what  she  was  with  Miss  Darcy,  his 
sister,  or  his  aunt.  She  would  not,  ever,  meet  him  on 
equal  terms.  She  preferred  to  posture  and  undulate,  give 
him  soft  answers,  play  her  little  games.  Why?  He 
could  not  answer,  or  rather  he  would  not, —  it  annoyed 
him  too  much.  There  were  times  when  he  had  broken 
off  the  dialogue,  so  conscious  was  he  of  what  he  called 
her  insincerity :  that  is,  of  the  fact  that  she  was  shadow- 
ing him,  giving  him  the  reply  he  wanted,  or  that  she  im- 
agined he  wanted,  rather  than  the  facts  she  knew.  Now, 
in  the  matter  of  her  father,  it  was  of  first-rate  importance 
that  he  should  know  as  well.  She  should  have  seen  that. 
Yet  it  was  so  she  always  answered  him,  watching  his  face 
with  her  little  glances,  declaring  that  she  never  saw 
Jacoby,  had  dropped  all  communication, —  always  in  so 
sweet  a  manner  that  Quentin  failed  to  trust.  The  shying 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  261 

of  his  spirit  before  her  methods  was  at  moments  so  vio- 
lent that  he  felt  he  could  see  no  more  of  her, —  that  he 
must  leave  her  case.  But  the  case,  to  his  cooler  brain, 
was  interesting:  Miss  Darcy  asked  him  to  visit  her,  and 
somehow,  Jill  was  always  there. 

Leaning  against  the  paling  in  the  shade,  he  looked  back 
along  the  side  of  the  square  he  had  traversed,  to  be  sure 
that  none  of  the  figures  issuing  from  the  church  direction 
were  Jill's.  He  was  just  moving  on  again,  determining  to 
make  the  tour  of  the  square,  and  if  she  were  not  in  sight, 
go  home,  when  he  was  aware  of  two  figures  proceeding  in 
the  opposite  direction,  as  though  to  meet  the  church-going 
crowd.  Far  off  as  they  were,  Quentin  knew  both  at  a 
glance.  It  was  Jacoby  and  the  woman  with  whom  he 
lived.  They  were  debating  eagerly  and  privately,  and 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left. 

"  There !  "  thought  Quentin.  It  was  the  summing  up 
of  many  doubts,  and  a  challenge  to  his  sister,  with  her 
obstinate  "  pukka  "  about  Jill.  Sharp  on  that  came  the 
thought  that  now  he  could  test  her,  for  those  two  must 
have  been  purposing  to  meet  her,  the  coincidence  was  too 
flagrant  otherwise.  So  he  waited  where  he  was,  severe 
in  the  shadow,  biting  his  lips. 

Ten, —  twelve  minutes  by  his  watch  elapsed,  while 
groups  of  people  from  the  church  crossed  steadily.  They 
diminished  to  an  occasional  figure :  then  the  little  figure  he 
expected  appeared.  She  turned  the  comer,  hurrying 
rather,  having  doubtless  guessed  she  was  late;  but  as 
usual,  neither  haste  nor  her  infirmity  could  make  her  un- 
graceful, any  more  than  small  means  and  lack  of  leisure 
could  make  her  ill-dressed.  Her  eyes  peered  out  under 
a  wide  sun-hat, —  too  wide,  since  some  men  looked  after 
her, —  but  most  becoming  to  her  little  kitten-face.  She 
looked  charming,  dangerously:  and  the  line  of  Quentin's 
young  mouth  took  a  sardonic  turn.  Through  the  thick 
shadow  of  the  trees  he  walked  towards  her,  but  she  did 
not  see  him  coming  at  first.  He  was  nearly  opposite  Miss 


262  THE  ACCOLADE 

Darcy's  door  before  she  spied  him,  and  then  she  showed 
no  atom  of  discomposure,  though  her  color  was  a  little 
heightened  when  they  met. 

"  You  are  coming  in  ? "  was  her  first  remark,  looking 
innocent  and  sweet. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  with  Miss  Darcy.  I  only 
waited  a  minute  or  two,  in  case  you  came." 

She  merely  smiled  at  him:  it  was  enough,  he  hastened 
on. 

"  Do  you  always  go  to  church  alone  ?  " 

She  nodded.     "  Always.     It  is  my  holiday." 

"  She's  been  expecting  you,"  said  Quentin :  the  police- 
man, which  is  part  of  the  English  official  character,  rising 
in  him  as  he  spoke.  "  Are  you  always  so  late  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Jill.  "  It  was  a  long  sermon.  Though  not 
so  long  as  in  Geneva,"  she  added  pensively.  Standing 
by  him,  she  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm.  Quentin 
was  in  the  act  of  drawing  it  away,  when  he  remembered. 
She  had  the  best  excuse  for  using  him  as  a  walking-stick, 
after  all. 

"  Miss  Darcy  doesn't  seem  well,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"  She  is  old,"  said  Jill,  and  sighed.  "  It  will  not  last 
long."  She  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  house. 

"Would  you  be  glad  to  get  away  from  her?"  said 
Quentin.  He  suspected  it.  Her  look  was  "  wild  as 
grass  "  in  the  sun  this  morning. 

"  Oh,  no.  .  .  .  But  she  is  tiresome  sometimes.  She 
takes  things  to  make  her  sleep,  and  then,  next  day,  she 
is  cross." 

"  Has  she  been  more  cross  than  usual,  lately  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him.  "  You  found  her  so?"  she  said, 
with  the  prettiest  concern.  "  Perhaps,  if  I  had  been 
there " 

Quentin  did  not  rise  to  it:  he  never  rose  to  personali- 
ties from  Jill.  "  I  thought  she  might  be  worrying  about 
something,"  he  said. 

She  waited  a  second,  and  then  laughed  sweetly.    "  Pos- 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  263 

sibly  me,"  she  said.  "  You  meant  that  ?  She  is  always 
anxious  about  me  when  I  am  out.  And  I  must  tell  her 
all  that  has  passed,  when  I  come  in  again.  I  do  that  very 
well,  the  telling."  She  glanced  at  him.  "  I  shall  to- 
day." 

"What  will  you  tell  her?"  said  Quentin,  unwisely. 
He  happened  to  want  to  know  what  had  passed,  while  she 
was  out. 

"  I  shall  tell  her  I  met  you,"  said  Jill,  her  eyes  gleam- 
ing. "  Then  she  will  know  that  you  did  not  come  for 
her  alone." 

He  bit  his  lip  again  for  a  moment.  The  idea  that  his 
company  could  be  in  dispute,  between  a  woman  of  sixty, 
and  a  child  of  sixteen !  He  could  have  laughed,  and 
yet —  Unchildish,  to  say  the  least,  that  flash  of  jealousy. 

He  tried  probing  a  little  longer,  but  she  was  too  much 
for  him.  Or  else  she  was  completely  innocent.  But 
since  she  constantly  tried  to  lead  him  off  the  subject, — 
his  subject, —  into  the  personal  realm,  he  suspected  she 
was  not  so  completely  innocent  as  she  seemed. 

"  I  saw  your  father  last  week,"  he  observed  abruptly, — 
his  last  card. 

Her  bright  look  faded.  She  made  a  slight  grimace. 
"  He  ?  Is  he  still  in  London  ?  "  she  said.  As  he  was 
completely  silent,  words  cut  off,  she  looked  up  at  him 
anxiously.  Then  her  hand  dropped  off  his  arm. 

"  I  do  not  want  him,"  she  said  fiercely.  "  Qu'il  me 
fiche  la  paix!  I  will  kill  myself  if  he  comes  here, —  tell 
him  that." 

"  You  needn't  be  frightened,"  said  Quentin  pacifically, 
feeling  repentant  for  the  moment.  "  He  won't  come  to 
the  house,  anyhow:  I  think  I  can  promise  that.  He 
knows  the  danger,  when  you  are  really  getting  on, —  if 
you  make  it  clear  to  him  also." 

"  Frightened  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  I  am  not  frightened, 
—  ever, —  unless  you  frighten  me." 

"I'm  sorry.     Did  I?" 


264  THE  ACCOLADE 

Once  more,  his  tone  was  cold.  After  waiting  a  minute, 
with  a  murmur  that  she  was  late,  she  ran  into  the  house. 

Well,  what  was  a  reasonable  man,  with  a  logical  mind, 
to  make  of  a  creature  like  that  ?  Reason  was  not  in  her. 
If  Quentin  had  been  less  than  so  completely  English,  he 
would  have  shrugged  as  he  walked  away. 

What  does  the  barrister  do  when  the  witness,  held  at 
arms'-length  for  cross-examination,  creeps  round  the  arm 
in  order  to  get  closer  to  him  ?  A  wise  barrister  drops  the 
case.  Quentin  dropped  it,  shook  her  off  temporarily, 
while  he  walked  home  at  full  speed.  But  her  bright 
beseeching  eyes,  her  clinging  hand, —  the  hand  that  clung 
because  of  physical  need, —  came  back  to  him  at  times, 
when  he  was  sleepless  and  overworked.  It  was  a  hot  sea- 
son, and  the  glittering  heat  of  towns  propagates  the 
microbes  of  worry  and  self-question,  as  well  as  many 
more.  He  often  lay  wakeful,  rigid,  vexed  in  mind  over 
many  things,  and  that  lame  girl-child  among  the  many. 

However,  countless  of  Quentin's  former  friends  had 
worse  heat-fevers  to  contend  with  in  India,  as  he  told 
himself  constantly:  and  his  country  holiday  in  the  cool 
green  north  was  not  far  distant:  so  he  worked  on,  and 
did  not  complain. 

Two  or  three  weeks  after  that,  when  hardly  any  but 
the  workers  were  still  in  town,  Quentin  was  congratulated, 
—  twice  in  one  day. 

He  bore  this  most  trying  and  unexpected  situation  with 
all  the  grace  a  young  man  can  summon  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  for  his  chivalry  sprang  awake  to  protect  Helena's 
name.  He  said  he  was  much  honored  by  the  report,  but 
the  report  was  false:  and  begged  his  informants  to  con- 
tradict it  at  the  source  whence  they  had  derived  it,  in- 
stantly. 

But  worse  was  to  follow.  Quentin  was  still  working  in 
London  up  to  the  verge  of  his  holiday  in  the  last  days  of 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  265 

August,  almost  solitary,  for  his  acquaintance  had  scat- 
tered to  the  four  winds  during  the  month.  His  aunt  was 
at  his  sister's  cottage  in  Gloucestershire,  young  Mrs.  In- 
gestre  in  Yorkshire  with  her  husband,  Mrs.  Falkland, 
so  he  understood,  had  gone  abroad,  the  Captain  and  Har- 
old were  golfing,  and  Helena  was  alone,  alone  and  resting, 
at  the  old  country  home  in  the  West.  Quentin  feared  his 
letter  would  be  a  shock  to  her  when  it  came,  but  there 
was  no  avoiding  it. 

"  DEAR  Miss  FALKLAND,"  he  wrote.  (They  had  long 
been  on  the  verge  of  Christian  names  in  speech,  but  not 
in  writing.) 

"  I  feel  I  ought  to  tell  you  at  once,  if  you  have  not 
happened  to  meet  it,  that  a  report  has  got  about  of  our 
engagement,  heaven  knows  how.  Worse  than  that,  the 
Post  has  published  a  notice.  You  may  trust  me  to 
choke  off  the  report,  at  every  opportunity  I  have,  and 
some  of  my  friends  are  dealing  with  it  too.  The  notice, 
I  think,  had  better  be  contradicted  from  head-quarters: 
and  as  I  have  not  got  Captain  Falkland's  address,  I  let 
you  know  on  the  spot  and  inclose  the  slip.  I  never  heard 
of  a  false  report  of  that  nature  getting  into  print  before, 
and  I  can't  help  suspecting  ill-will  or  a  bad  joke  behind  it. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  how  awfully  sorry  I  am, —  it  is 
bound  to  be  loathsome  for  you,  especially  just  now,  when 
you  thought  you  had  got  rid  of  chatterers.  If  I  thought 
anything  I  had  done  with  you,  or  said  about  you,  could 
have  misled  people,  I  should  cut  my  throat,  or  get  Harold 
to  do  it,  instantly.  But  I  think  we  can  boast  of  a  strong 
position,  and  snub  scandal-mongers  to  our  hearts'  content. 
After  all,  it  is  on  the  verge  of  the  silly  season,  and  the 
papers  must  say  something,  mustn't  they  ? 

"  One  more  thing.  I  have  written  to  Harold  that  I 
retire  from  the  expedition,  I  need  not  say  with  what 
regret;  but  if  the  fashionable  press  is  following  your 
doings  already  with  such  close  interest,  I  shall  certainly 


266  THE  ACCOLADE 

not  seem  to  track  you  more  than  necessary,  so  Mrs.  Falk- 
land can  be  reassured.  Don't  trouble  to  answer  this,  since 
Harold  says  you  are  fagged  and  resting.  I  thought  it 
preferable  to  write  to  you  direct  in  the  circumstances. 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  QUENTIN   AUBERON." 

Helena,  that  same  evening,  dispatched  three  letters. 
She  was  not  a  voluminous  writer  at  any  time,  so  we  may 
give  them  in  their  entirety. 

"  DEAR  MR.  AUBERON, 

"  Thank   you.     Father    will    contradict    it.     Now 
listen. 

"  If  there  was  a  question  of  anyone  retiring  from  the 
expedition,  in  consequence  of  a  mere  mistake  like  that, 
which  is  not  a  scandal  after  all, —  it  would  be  me.  But  I 
shall  not, —  I  stick  to  our  bargain.  I  do  not  think  the 
fashionable  news  is  following  my  doings  to  the  extent  you 
imagine,  to  begin  with :  to  go  on  with,  there  is  no  fashion- 
able news,  thanks  to  mercy,  within  twelve  miles  of  Kes- 
wick.  Last  of  all,  we  should  defeat  our  own  ends  by 
separating,  since  such  numbers  of  our  friends  know  of 
the  plan. 

"  I  think,  when  you  want  to  defeat  lying,  whether  ill- 
natured  or  merely  silly, —  I  can't  say  which  this  is, —  the 
straightforward  course  is  bound  to  be  the  best.  Our 
thoughts  and  intentions  in  doing  the  thing  are  what  mat- 
ter finally,  not  the  thing  we  do.  My  thoughts  and  in- 
tentions are  very  windy,  with  rocks  sticking  up  in  the 
right  places,  and  blue  in  the  distance  behind  them,  and 
springy  underfoot.  I  believe  yours  are  the  same,  and  I 
am  certain  Harold's  are.  Harold's  last  letter,  which  was 
long,  was  entirely  about  his  boots.  Do  please  get  a  better 
pair  if  you  can  manage  it,  or  he  will  be  unbearable  on  the 
subject,  all  the  time. 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  HELENA  F.  FALKLAND." 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  267 

That  was  Quentin's  first  letter  from  the  beautiful  Miss 
Falkland,  and  he  kept  it. 

"  DEAR  FATHER  "  [ran  the  second  to  the  Captain], 

"  I  inclose  this  slip  if  you  have  not  seen  it.  I  don't 
suppose  you  read  the  fashionable  column  in  the  Post. 
Will  you  do  the  proper  thing  about  it  at  once,  with  full 
authority  from  me  and  Mr.  Auberon  (inclosed)  to  con- 
tradict it  flat? 

"  I  have  written  nothing  to  Mother  about  it  so  far,  but 
I  have  myself  a  theory,  which  I  think  might  just  explain. 

You  know  that  very  strange  young I  have  refused  at 

least  half  a  dozen  times.  Lately  he  has  seemed  deter- 
mined to  annoy  me,  and  he  dislikes  Q.  A.,  and  I  believe 
might  possibly  do  a  thing  like  that.  Only  you  understand 
I  have  no  earthly  evidence,  so  you  will  be  careful,  won't 
you,  Father  dear,  and  not  get  angry  too  soon.  It  is  per- 
plexing, isn't  it, —  I  feel  like  sorcery  somewhere.  Never 
mind. 

"  I  am  quite  well,  absolutely,  so  do  not  worry  about  me. 
I  am  only  growing  old  very  fast,  with  these  rather  star- 
tling adventures.  I  can't  think  of  your  kindness  that  day 
in  the  Park  without  crying,  still,  which  must  mean  I 
am  a  little  nervous:  but  the  mountains  will  soon  cure 
that.  Yet  it  is  so  terrible  to  be  trusted,  in  life,  that  some- 
times I  would  prefer  an  Elizabethan  father,  who  beat  me 
hard. 

"  Yours, 
"  H." 

The  third  letter  was  the  shortest  of  all. 

"  DEAR  MR.  INGESTRE, 

"  It  is  not  true.  Three  days,  I  have  counted,  you 
have  thought  it  true,  and  it  is  not.  And  your  mother  so 
terribly  ill,  the  papers  say,  and  I  can  only  send  this  little 
word  to  help  you.  Praying  is  no  use  to  you,  is  it? 

"  H.  F.  F." 


268  THE  ACCOLADE  . 

She  sent  that  to  the  London  address:  guessing  what 
was  the  fact,  that  John  would  have  been  recalled  to 
town. 

in 

Self-deception  is  an  extraordinary  thing.  It  is  wonder- 
ful and  terrible  to  mark,  in  life,  the  extent  to  which  hu- 
man beings  are  capable  of  willfully  blinding  themselves, 
shutting  away  the  truth.  To  a  student,  the  soul  of  Ursula 
would  have  been  an  interesting  enigma  at  this  period. 
She  knew,  in  the  honest  depths  of  her,  that  her  husband 
was  struggling  with  such  a  passion  as  shakes  a  man  once 
in  his  lifetime, —  a  passion  for  another  than  herself.  He 
had  shown  it  her  clearly,  had  barely  made  an  attempt  to 
conceal.  She  refused,  in  the  superficial  layers  of  her 
daily  thinking,  to  admit  it  at  all.  A  girl  of  nineteen,  in- 
deed !  —  it  was  the  last  indignity :  consequently,  since  she 
retained  her  dignity  unimpaired,  it  could  not  be.  As  con- 
viction, slowly  and  inevitably,  crept  upon  her,  she  fought 
with  greater  fury,  setting  her  whole  will  to  resist.  It 
could  not  be, —  it  was  not, —  at  least  long  enough  to  de- 
ceive completely  nearly  all  those  with  whom  she  came  in 
contact. 

In  this  dangerously  distempered  condition  of  the  human 
mind,  when  truth  does  pierce  unaware  it  hurts  the  more. 
It  inspires  the  greater  fury,  and  occasionally  drives  a 
sufferer  —  even  as  sensible  as  Ursula  —  to  do  a  thor- 
oughly foolish  thing.  This  is  the  only  way  in  which  we 
can  account  for  the  strange  step  referred  to  in  the  fore- 
going letters :  a  step  which  was  so  wild,  so  utterly  unlike 
Ursula  to  everybody  who  knew  her,  that  only  one  person, 
and  that  the  cleverest  of  her  acquaintance,  ever  suspected 
her  at  all.  Barring  that  person,  she  remained  absolutely 
secure  from  suspicion,  all  her  days,  even  amid  the  superior 
and  skeptical  intelligences  of  her  husband's  family. 

It  was  over  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Falkland  that  the  idea 
came  to  her,  or  rather  that  the  emotions  came  that 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  269 

prompted  the  idea.  John  brought  her  the  letter,  one  of 
the  last  days  before  they  left  London,  and  while  he  was 
still  preoccupied  by  his  mother's  state,  and  doubting 
whether  he  should  go  north  at  all.  He  had  not  fought 
Ursula's  proposal  to  accompany  him  to  Yorkshire :  indeed 
he  hardly  seemed  to  have  taken  it  in,  a  sign  of  his  great 
unrest  and  distraction  of  mind.  In  that  condition,  he  was 
apt  to  be  passive,  domestically,  and  Ursula  had  her  own 
way  and  had  made  all  the  arrangements  in  advance.  Al- 
ready John  was  going  to  be  much  more  comfortable  at 
Routhwick  than  he  could  possibly  have  been  if  he  had  not 
accepted  her.  This  was  balm  to  Ursula's  conscience,  of 
course,  for  adding  to  his  daily  and  nightly  weariness  by 
forcing  her  presence  on  him  when  he  preferred  to  be 
alone. 

He  handed  the  letter  to  her  in  her  workroom,  and  in  so 
doing,  he  asked  her  idly  what  she  had  been  addressing  to 
herself. 

"  That's  Mrs.  Falkland's  handwriting,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Go  on !  "  said  Johnny.  He  was  really  incredulous. 
There  was  certainly  a  marked  likeness  between  their 
sloping  pointed  hands,  both  of  the  old-fashioned  order; 
though  Ursula  was  surprised  his  sharp  eyes  should  be 
deceived. 

"  You'd  better  forge  me  a  check  or  two,"  he  remarked 
as  he  left  the  room.  "  She's  a  rich  woman, —  growing 
richer,  old  Samuel  says.  It  might  be  useful  at  a  pinch." 

Mrs.  Falkland's  letters,  increasingly  frequent,  grew  in 
intimacy  also.  She  was  determined  to  know  Ursula. 
They  were  also  long,  and  Mrs.  Ingestre  was  prepared  to 
be  bored :  however  she  read  it  through  to  the  end. 

Mrs.  Falkland  was  going  away,  abroad  for  a  month. 
This  was  a  relief,  since  Ursula  had  feared  she  might  pro- 
pose a  visit  to  Routhwick.  John  would  never  stand  her, 
even  for  a  couple  of  nights.  .  .  .  The  doctor  advised  — 
Ursula  passed  it  over.  Mrs.  Falkland  was  so  concerned 
to  hear  Ursula  had  put  off  her  own  nice  plan  of  Sophien- 


270  THE  ACCOLADE 

bad,  they  might  have  met,  etcetera.  Yet  so  easily  under- 
stood in  the  circumstances,  one's  husband's  family,  so 
trying  for  them  all  —  the  reader's  eye  slipped  on. 

"  Dear  Helena  is  looking  run-down,  really  I  think  Lon- 
don tries  her.  After  all,  as  Father  says,  she  was  bonk 
a  country  lass.  She  will  be  alone  here  for  a  bit,  since 
Father  is  going  to  his  golfing-place.  However  the  three 
have  their  plan  for  September,  all  fixed  up,  so  that  will 
be  nice  for  all  parties.  I  depend  so  much  on  Quentin's 
good  sense,  really,  for  both  of  them.  .  .  .  What  you  al- 
lude to  about  him  interests  me.  I  had  noticed  something 
of  that  nature  myself,  though  of  course  you  know  moth- 
ers go  for  nothing  in  these  days.  Indeed  it  would  be  a 
nice  thing,  suitable  as  you  say.  Howard  pished  as  usual, 
when  I  mentioned  it  in  his  hearing,  but  I  tell  him  a  girl 
must  marry  some  time,  and  he  could  not  wish  a  better 
kind  of  man.  Then  Father  said  Helena  was  to  use  her 
own  judgment,  and  time  before  her,  and  so  on,  as  of 
course  there  is;  so  I  have  said  nothing  to  the  child  at 
present,  though  one  cannot  fail  to  notice  little  signs.  It 
is  my  idea,  though  safer  not  to  repeat  it,  that  they  are 
corresponding  regularly.  After  all  when  a  girl  of  that 
age  goes  to  meet  the  post " 

That  was  where  Ursula  stopped.  It  was  there  her 
judgment  exclaimed  "  You  fool ! "  to  the  complacent 
mother,  and  her  honesty  admitted  whence  the  daughter's 
letters  came.  She  knew  it  as  well  as  though  she  had  seen 
John's  handwriting  upon  them.  There  was  a  single  con- 
vulsion, or  contraction  of  rage  within  her,  no  more :  then, 
as  she  believed,  she  mastered  it.  At  least  she  read  on 
calmly  to  the  letter's  end. 

But  truth  so  treated  has  her  revenge.  There  is  a  truth- 
ful hour  of  the  early  dawn,  well-known  to  all  unhappy 
people,  when  sleep  on  the  one  hand  withdraws  its  flatter- 
ing wing,  and  no  day  on  the  other  has  appeared  to  warm 
our  hopes:  a  time  when  nature  prefers  that  man  should 
not  be  conscious,  unless  for  the  most  solemn  watches 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  271 

of  birth  or  death.  It  was  then  Ursula  awoke  in  an 
empty  room, —  a  room  in  that  horror  of  emptiness  fa- 
miliar places  have  when  dismantled  for  packing,  hinting 
a  season's  desertion  in  advance.  Looking  about  her,  she 
knew  the  chill  of  despair,  and  all  her  customary  safe- 
guards failed.  She  knew  Helena  beloved  by  John  as  she 
was  not,  as  she  never  had  been:  that  the  whole  of  his 
thoughts  all  day,  all  night,  possibly  at  this  moment  where 
he  was  sleeping  beneath  his  father's  roof,  were  with  her, 
that  chit,  that  child,  in  her  western  home.  Ursula  lay 
rigid,  the  poison  spreading  within  her  to  deadly  hatred, 
—  she  let  it  for  once  have  its  way.  She  admitted  the 
devil,  and  the  devil  proposed  hatred  of  Helena,  of  Hel- 
ena's silly  mother,  but  first  and  foremost  of  him.  Then, 
having  suggested  every  conceivable  relief  in  vain, —  for 
Ursula  in  the  dawn  was  still  ascetic,  armed,  and  miser- 
able,—  he  whispered  in  quitting  her  a  mischievous  idea. 

"  Print,"  said  the  devil, —  or  one  of  his  imps  that  haunt 
the  regions  of  sleep. 

The  devil  does  not  like  dignity,  of  course,  in  his  victims, 
since  he  pretends,  on  all  accounts,  to  so  much  majesty 
himself.  Or  he  may  simply  have  wished  to  tease  her, 
having  failed  to  tempt, —  we  will  not  vouch  for  the  Sa- 
tanic psychology.  Like  other  hard  workers  in  the  world, 
he  has  to  amuse  himself,  and  he  probably  saw  his  oppor- 
tunity. 

Ursula  rejected  it  as  folly  of  the  night,  absurd.  By 
full  daylight,  she  would  barely  think  of  it,  it  seemed  so 
silly.  What  could  be  the  advantage,  to  anybody,  since 
it  must  be  contradicted  the  next  day?  Yet  there  was, 
even  by  full  daylight,  a  subtle  flavor,  refreshment, —  en- 
tertainment almost, —  in  the  thought  of  her  husband  see- 
ing that  eminently  reasonable  forecast,  printed.  There 
is  that  about  print, —  still, —  which  persuades :  its  uniform 
is  respected.  A  printed  lie  would  reach  him,  hurt  for  the 
moment,  the  more  that  he  admitted  a  liking  for  the  man. 
He  would  not  regard  the  rumors,  of  course,  his  vanity 


272  THE  ACCOLADE 

saved  him:  but  that  would  trip  him,  vanity  and  all, —  it 
must. 

So  the  idea  did  not  really  leave  her;  and  in  the  first 
recurrence  of  her  fury,  one  morning  in  Yorkshire,  when 
his  indifference  had  goaded  her  passingly,  she  wrote  off 
the  announcement  to  one  of  the  papers  he  regularly  saw. 
She  inclosed  it  with  some  others,  to  be  posted  by  her 
housekeeper  in  London.  Having  finished  it,  forged  the 
Falkland  name,  she  was  terrified,  rather  pleasantly.  It 
was  a  crime, —  the  first  of  her  life,  she  was  sure.  There 
was  a  thrill  in  committing  a  secret  crime,  as  there  would 
be  in  repenting  it.  She  barely  thought  of  detection,  she 
was  so  accustomed  to  her  own  prestige, —  rightly,  as  it 
proved, —  but  remorse,  even  lengthy  remorse  was  prob- 
ably in  store  for  her.  It  might  be,  she  faced  the  penalty, 
—  at  least  she  would  see  him  suffer  first. 

She  did  not  see  it.  She  lost  that  consolation  com- 
pletely, owing  to  her  untoward  fate.  The  morning  the 
lie  was  circulated  in  the  London  paper  was  the  same 
morning  that  her  husband  was  himself  summoned  south, 
by  a  message  whose  curtness  suggested  urgency.  Ursula 
offered  to  accompany  him,  but  was  rejected.  Her  plans 
failed  at  every  point. 

At  the  terminus,  Johnny's  father  came  to  meet  him, — 
a  surprising  event.  It  was  the  last  thing  he  would  have 
done  at  common  times ;  and  had  he  been  as  quick  as  usual, 
Johnny  would  have  guessed  that  a  stronger  impulse  than 
kindness, —  say  curiosity, —  must  have  prompted  such  an 
effort  on  his  father's  part. 

As  a  fact,  Mr.  Ingestre's  mother  had  called  his  atten- 
tion to  the  notice  of  the  Falkland  girl's  engagement  in  the 
Post  that  morning,  and  both  had  wondered,  though  in 
different  degrees,  how  Johnny  would  take  it.  Old  Mrs. 
Ingestre  had  prophesied  it,  of  course,  for  long:  she  had 
spent  a  month  in  industrious  prophecy ;  so  that  her  son's 
measure  of  wonder,  over  the  crowning  incident,  exceeded 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  273 

hers.  Mr.  Ingestre  was  most  genuinely  curious  as  to  the 
effect  on  Johnny,  even  apprehensive  in  a  remote  degree. 
His  appearance  in  the  evening  at  the  station  was  the 
direct  result. 

The  way  his  son  winced  and  whitened  at  the  sight  of 
him  was  the  first  hint  that  Johnny,  summoned  with  such 
enigmatic  curtness,  might  give  his  unlooked-for  appear- 
ance another  interpretation. 

"  All  right,"  were  his  first  rather  hasty  words,  in  conse- 
quence,— "  she's  asleep.  Sorry  if  I  startled  you,  but  it 
comes  and  goes.  She  may  weather  it  again,  Ashwin  says, 
though  he  doubted  it  this  morning.  That's  why  I  wired, 
have  to  take  the  professional's  word." 

It  approached  an  apology,  and  Johnny  accepted  it  with 
a  nod,  but  his  worn  and  sulky  look  did  not  alter.  Anx- 
iety soon  spent  him,  as  his  father  knew.  Not  a  woman 
of  that  waiting  family  group  but  could  stand  the  shocks 
and  retardations  of  a  long  illness  better  than  "  the  boy," 
—  so  they  recognized.  It  was  not  only  that  he  loved  his 
mother,  it  was  that  he  was  made  differently,  faced  all 
things  differently.  It  was  vexatious,  but  true. 

"  Where's  Ursula  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  as  his  son  pulled 
his  few  possessions  out  of  the  train. 

"  At  Routhwick,"  grunted  Johnny.  "  I  told  her  she'd 
not  be  wanted." 

"  One  for  Ursula,"  thought  Mr.  Ingestre,  rather 
pleased.  It  always  pleased  him  that  a  man  should  prove 
master  in  his  own  household ;  and  in  this  case  he  thought 
that  Ursula's  unskillful  tactics,  as  exercised  on  her  hus- 
band, deserved  the  snub.  He  had  no  doubt  she  would 
have  preferred,  and  was  probably  prepared,  to  come  to 
London.  Ursula's  perfect  correctness,  on  all  occasions, 
was  a  thing  on  which  the  family  counted,  though  they 
pretended  to  scoff. 

"  Seen  the  papers  ? "  he  proceeded  blandly,  since 
Johnny's  back  was  conveniently  turned. 

"  No,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 


274  THE  ACCOLADE 

He  could  act,  of  course :  yet  his  father  was  pretty  clear, 
after  a  few  minutes'  further  experiment,  that  he  had  not. 
He  had  started  early,  and  the  London  papers  arrived  at 
Routhwick  late.  In  the  train  he  had  had  the  news  of  the 
day,  it  seemed,  but  had  doubtless  been  too  worried  to 
glance  at  it.  At  least  his  eye  had  not  fallen  on  the  dan- 
gerous paragraph,  and  Mr.  Ingestre,  for  some  reason, 
breathed  more  freely.  It  struck  him  perhaps  as  rather 
rough  luck  that  the  two  blows  should  fall  on  the  boy  at 
once,  though  in  general  he  would  have  said  such  shocks 
to  his  self-assurance  were  good  for  Johnny.  That  had 
been,  at  least,  throughout  his  son's  youth,  his  own  educa- 
tional principle. 

They  went  together  to  Johnny's  house,  since  he  had 
business  there,  and  his  mother's  state  of  exhaustion,  as 
described  by  the  doctor,  gave  him  time.  On  arrival  he 
looked  sharply  through  the  letters  that  were  awaiting  him, 
and  then  pocketed,  without  opening,  one  of  them.  Noth- 
ing to  be  made  by  his  father  out  of  that.  The  house  was 
in  the  hands  of  workmen,  watched  over  by  the  caretaker, 
a  lady  of  a  bland  and  impervious  appearance,  and  a  self- 
satisfied  smile,  calculated  to  arouse  Ingestre  passions  to 
the  uttermost.  Johnny  interviewed  this  woman  on  cer- 
tain points  for  Ursula,  and  heard  out  some  lengthy  com- 
plaints of  the  workmen  and  what  not,  in  silence.  His 
father  looked  on  the  while,  unwillingly  impressed.  He 
did  business  rapidly, —  it  was  not  that.  He  had  never 
doubted  his  son  could  govern,  for  all  his  careless  ways. 
He  only  heard  what  complaints  were  necessary,  checked 
the  rest,  and  planted  his  orders  plainly  and  patiently  too. 
It  was  that  patience,  and  low  clear  tone  —  his  stage-tone, 
well-measured  and  directed, —  that  was  unusual.  He  did 
not  even  swear  when,  having  finally  disposed  things  to  his 
taste  upon  his  premises,  he  was  stopped  again  by  the  care- 
taker, just  as  the  car  was  moving  off.  She  came  out  on 
the  step,  rolling  her  hands  in  her  apron  in  a  complacent 
and  leisurely  fashion,  having  lifted  one  to  detain  the 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  275 

chauffeur,  with  an  air  that  made  that  lofty  functionary 
snort. 

"  What  now  ?  "  said  Johnny,  turning. 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  I  was  forgetting.  A  lady 
called." 

"  Hullo ! "  thought  John  the  elder,  at  the  speaking 
change  in  his  son's  face. 

"  Said  she  must  see  you,  sir, —  most  pressing  she  was. 
Had  no  idea  you  were  gone  away." 

"  Did  she  ask  for  me  or  Mrs.  Ingestre?"  said  Johnny. 

"  You,  sir.     That's  why  I " 

"Had  she  a  name?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  certainly :  but  she  didn't  leave  a  card. 
Said  you'd  know  her  without,  sir." 

"  Without  a  name  ?  "  said  John  the  elder. 

"  Fool ! "  muttered  John  the  younger.  He  looked 
straight  at  his  father  under  his  haughty  eyelids, —  they 
were  facing  one  another  in  the  car.  "  Perhaps  she  said 
she'd  write,"  he  said  to  the  woman. 

"  Yes,  she  did,  sir.  She'd  write  immediate.  I  gave  her 
your  address." 

"  Genius !  "  said  Johnny,  less  discreetly.  "  Well, —  and 
she  was  young  and  beautiful,  wasn't  she?" 

"  No,  sir.  No  indeed,  sir.  More  like  a  gentleman  to 
look  at,  you'd  say." 

"  Dressed  like  a  gentleman?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  What  is  this  pastoral  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ingestre  to  nobody. 

Low  as  both  spoke,  they  were  very  audible,  and  the 
driver  had  his  hand  across  his  mouth.  The  caretaker 
also  was  fingering  her  chin  with  her  plump  hand,  but  not, 
it  appeared,  for  the  same  reason.  Johnny  saw  the  ges- 
ture first,  and  interpreted. 

"  The  Honorable  Darcy,"  he  said  to  his  father.  "  Bet 
you  it  was.  A  beard,  had  the  lady?  —  right,  I'll  go." 
He  nodded  to  the  woman,  and  the  car  started. 

"  What's  the  Honorable  Darcy  want  with  you  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Ingestre,  though  without  much  interest. 


276  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Don't  know, —  I'll  see."  Johnny  was  equally  absent. 
Suddenly,  however,  he  moved,  and  called  to  the  chauffeur. 
"  We're  passing  her  place,"  he  informed  his  father,  "  or 
close  by.  I'll  see  her  now, —  it  won't  take  long." 

"  Rubbish,"  snapped  Mr.  Ingestre,  who  happened  to 
want  his  company.  "  You've  not  dined." 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Johnny. 

"  That's  nonsense, —  you'll  need  your  strength  later. 
It's  nothing  but  restlessness,"  he  added,  rousing.  "  Why 
can't  you  ever  stick  to  one  thing  at  a  time  ?  " 

Mr.  Ingestre  found  himself  upon  a  familiar  tack. 
Scores  of  times,  he  had  said  that  in  youth  to  Johnny. 
"  Young  dodger, —  never  know  where  to  have  him," — 
were  the  least  abusive  epithets  addressed  to  his  mother 
concerning  him. 

Johnny  proceeded  now  to  dodge  and  defeat  him  just 
in  his  old  style.  He  intended  to  see  Miss  Darcy.  His 
excuses  mounted  in  absurdity  in  proportion  as  his  fa- 
ther's impatience  increased.  They  wrangled  for  half  a 
mile,  and  called  contrary  directions  to  the  chauffeur. 
When  that  official,  who  was  a  philosopher,  drew  up  at 
the  entrance  to  Miss  Darcy's  square,  Johnny  unlatched 
the  door  with  a  jerk. 

"  Mother's  fond  of  her,"  he  said  sulkily  as  he  got  out. 
"  There  might  be  something  I  could  do." 

He  remained  with  Miss  Darcy  a  good  hour.  Finally, 
his  father  had  to  start  dinner  without  him. 

"  Well,  did  you  see  her  ?  "  he  said,  when  his  son  chose 
at  last  to  join  him,  from  the  floor  above,  where  he  had 
been  interviewing  his  mother's  doctor. 

"  No,"  said  Johnny,  looking  a  trifle  sulkier  than  before. 
"  He  says  it  could  do  neither  of  us  any  good  to-night. 
That's  the  way  he  puts  it.  Jolly  careful  of  our  feelings, 
aren't  they,  these  medical  swells.  He's  been  talking  to 
her  quite  a  lot." 

His  father  waited  a  minute,  rather  taken  aback.     "  I 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  277 

alluded  to  Miss  Darcy,"  he  explained.  "  As  for  Ashwin, 
you  can  trust  him.  I  broke  through  his  orders  once  about 
your  mother,  and  regretted  it." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Johnny  roughly.     "  Did  he  curse  you  ?  " 

"  No, —  I  cursed  him,  for  being  right.  I  can't  do  with 
these  infallible  people." 

"  Should  have  thought  it  was  what  you  paid  him  for," 
said  Johnny.  "  I  like  Ashwin,  he's  got  manners.  Hand 
us  the  bread  knife,  will  you?" 

The  meal  proceeded  on  these  terms,  with  little  or  noth- 
ing said;  nothing  agreeable  or  confidential  anyhow: 
merely  the  brief  remarks  that  strangers  might  have  of- 
fered to  avoid  the  burden  of  silence.  Wretched  as  they 
both  were,  and  for  just  the  same  causes,  they  could  not 
communicate  by  natural  means.  That  each  had  the  wit 
to  penetrate  the  other's  thought  made  things  no  better 
between  them,  rather  worse.  They  shortened  the  meal 
by  mutual  consent  and  adjourned  to  the  study,  where, 
with  the  help  of  smoke,  things  were  a  little  better.  But 
even  so,  it  did  not  last.  Johnny,  having  strolled  about 
a  little,  was  the  first  to  open  fire. 

"  Since  you're  at  leisure,  Father,"  he  started,  addressing 
the  newspaper  in  which  his  sire  was  shrouded,  "  we  might 
as  well  get  it  done.  Fact  is,  that  poor  old  thing's  in  a 
devil  of  a  coil,  and  it's  my  fault." 

"  Yours  ?  Who  are  you  speaking  about  ?  "  The  news- 
paper dropped. 

"  Miss  Darcy.     I  —  er  —  thought  you  enquired." 

"  I  did,  about  an  hour  since,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  fold- 
ing the  paper  back  with  care.  "  I'm  ready  to  hear,"  he 
added. 

"  Well,  there  was  something  in  it,  as  I  supposed.  It 
took  some  time  to  make  her  speak,  she  was  so  frightened, 
but  I  got  it  at  last." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  his  father.  Johnny  spoke  with  an  effort, 
in  jerks,  so  he  began  to  be  suspicious. 


278  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Well,  you  know  the  Hope  miniature  of  the  Marechale, 
with  the  pearls,  in  the  Hall  collection, —  little  lady  in 
pink?" 

"Yes,  yes.     What  of  it?" 

"  I  took  it  across  to  show  her,  once  upon  a  time." 

"  You'd  no  business  to,"  snapped  his  father. 

"  Mother  knew  of  it."  A  pause.  "  She  said  —  old 
Darcy  —  we'd  no  notion  of  its  value,  not  the  pearls  but 
the  picture.  I  said  I  had  a  very  good  notion." 

"  It's  the  picture  of  an  uncommon  pretty  woman,"  said 
Mr.  Ingestre. 

"  That's  the  kind  of  thing  I  said,"  said  Johnny.  "  She 
swore  we  were  none  of  us  fit  to  have  it,  and  all  the  good 
things  in  England  were  in  hands  equally  frivolous  and 
incompetent.  She  stuck  to  it  herself  in  consequence. 
Mother  and  I  told  everyone  she  had  stolen  it,  knowing 
the  old  miser  was  as  safe  as  a  house.  Well, " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  his  father  impatiently. 

"  She's  lost  it,"  said  Johnny,  looking  in  front  of  him. 
"  So  it  seems." 

"  Confound  her,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre, —  only  he  said 
worse. 

"  She's  almost  out  of  her  mind,"  observed  Johnny. 

"  She's  long  been  that,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  getting  up. 

"  It's  nerves,"  said  Johnny,  "  no  more.  Her  faculties 
are  quite  in  order,  as  I  proved."  He  eyed  his  father  cau- 
tiously a  minute.  "  It's  no  earthly  use  going  round  to  rag 
her,  she  won't  find  it  the  more  for  that.  I've  done  every- 
thing that  can  be  done,  for  the  moment.  It's  a  case  for 
a  doctor,  I  should  say." 

"  It's  a  case  for  a  magistrate,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  "  or 
a  madhouse.  She  can  take  her  choice.  If  it's  lost,"  he 
added,  "  I  shall  hold  you  responsible." 

"  I  hold  myself,"  said  Johnny.  "  It's  my  loss  as  much 
as  yours.  Don't  lose  your  temper." 

That  produced  the  required  effect.  Johnny  had  known 
it  must  come,  of  course,  for  the  last  half-hour,  so  he  hur- 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  279 

ried  it  up,  in  a  gracious  and  filial  manner,  by  his  final  re- 
mark, and  let  loose  the  furies.  He  seized  the  opportunity 
himself  to  get  several  things  said,  which  he  had  wanted 
to  say  for  some  time  past.  Anyone  unaccustomed  to  their 
methods  would  have  been  sure  such  language  could  never 
have  been  lived  down  on  either  side  without  murder  com- 
mitted, a  formal  meeting,  or  a  law-suit  at  least.  But  the 
servant  who  brought  the  coffee  in  the  midst  of  it  took 
the  domestic  situation  with  great  calm.  Mr.  John's  re- 
turn to  town  practically  implied  it,  granted  "  the  mas- 
ter's "  irascible  condition,  which  had  been  known  to  his 
household  for  weeks.  They  quite  looked  forward  to  Mr. 
Johnny,  since  he  was  bound  to  conduct  the  lightning  upon 
himself,  sooner  or  later, —  and  after  that  things  would  be 
more  comfortable. 

Which  was  the  case.  Later,  Mrs.  Ingestre's  doctor, 
who  looked  in  before  he  left,  was  received  with  elaborate 
courtesy  and  friendliness,  by  both  parties.  John  and  his 
father  even  took  Sir  Claude's  expert  advice  as  to  what, 
in  the  problem  of  Miss  Darcy's  nerves  —  carefully  de- 
tailed—  would  be  the  best  steps  to  take  concerning  the 
treasure  she  had  lost,  or  was  concealing.  The  doctor 
heard  the  evidence  out,  scarcely  needing  to  cross-question, 
and  temporized,  advising  them  to  wait  a  while  before 
either  the  police,  or  the  commissioners  of  lunacy,  were 
applied  to.  Sir  Claude  said  gently  that,  granted  an  old 
lady  of  the  kind  described,  the  piece  of  property  "  might 
turn  up  "  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  two,  in  some  quite 
obvious  place  that  would  suddenly  come  to  her  mind.  He 
gave  a  few  gentle  opinions  of  the  same  moderate  nature 
on  his  patient :  then  he  said  good-night  to  the  pair  in  the 
study,  and  went  his  way. 

When  he  had  gone,  John  the  elder  dropped  into  a  chair. 
"  Clever  fellow,  Ashwin,"  he  remarked. 

"  Never  says  all  he  thinks,"  said  Johnny  pensively. 

"  Tricks  of  the  trade,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre.  He  crossed 
his  legs,  and  took  up  his  former  newspaper,  glancing 


280  THE  ACCOLADE 

round  once  as  he  did  so.  "  You  get  to  bed,  my  lad,"  he 
advised.  "  You've  had  enough."  He  had  observed 
Johnny  was  always  more  exhausted  than  he  by  their  little 
encounters,  though  he  showed  up  in  style  at  the  time. 

"  Well  then,  sit  down,"  was  his  next  suggestion. 

But  no,  Johnny  preferred  as  usual  to  rest  on  his  legs, 
and  air  his  thoughts  at  a  six-foot  attitude.  He  stood 
where  he  was  in  his  glory,  while  his  natural  authority,  in- 
firm and  useless,  lay  in  his  chair. 

Being  thus  disobeyed,  and  within  range,  Mr.  Ingestre 
touched  him  with  his  foot  in  a  manner  of  careless  patron- 
age, or  ownership, —  much  as  a  trainer  might  a  fine  young 
dog,  in  taking  stock  of  a  pack  he  had  reared.  This  was 
one  of  his  habitual  manners  when  he  was  feeling  amiable : 
and  a  good  example  of  a  manner  no  parent  should  ever 
indulge  in,  unless  he  wants  to  be  detested. 

"  Perhaps  we're  both  out  of  condition  a  bit,"  he  sug- 
gested, as  his  son  flushed  and  moved  aside.  Johnny  did 
not  consider,  and  never  had  considered,  that  he  was  his 
father's  property.  He  simply  could  not  get  the  point  of 
view. 

"  Speak  for  yourself,"  he  said,  turning  his  back.  "  My 
condition's  all  it  should  be,  ask  Fox."  Fox  was  the  agent 
at  Routhwick.  "  He  and  I  have  hardly  been  out  of  the 
saddle  except  to  eat  and  sleep  for  ten  days  past." 

"  Really?  "  said  Mr.  Ingestre  pleasantly.  "  I  say,  what 
a  palpitating  life  for  Ursula." 

Silence  from  Johnny.  His  next  remark  surprised  his 
father. 

"  I  shall  have  to  talk  to  her  about  this  business,"  he  said, 
half  to  himself. 

"To  Ursula?    The  miniature?    What  next?" 

"  Keep  cool,"  advised  Johnny.  "  I'd  not  really  done 
when  you  broke  out  before.  Fact  is,  there's  another  in- 
mate in  the  Darcy  menage, —  a  girl  Ursula  saw  fit  to  rec- 
ommend, on  a  charitable  inspiration,  because  she  had  a 
good-for-nothing  father.  Disreputable,"  said  Johnny, 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  281 

"  was  the  word.  Used  by  Ursula  it  misses  its  full  sense, 
but  still." 

"  Ha,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  smoking  in  his  chair.  "  You 
interviewed  the  girl,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.  "  Darcy  won't  hear  a  breath 
against  the  girl.  As  to  the  father,  Ursula  never  let  out 
that  damaging  fact,  it  seems:  and  she  only  let  it  out  to 
me,"  he  added  reflectively,  "  in  confidence." 

"  Confidence  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  with  a  queer  look. 

"  A  trifle  forced,  perhaps,"  said  Johnny. 

"  What  dashed  bad  business,"  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  after 
thought,  "  not  to  let  the  employer  know.  I  thought 
Ursula  had  some  business  intelligence." 

"  It's  liable  to  be  obscured  by  kindness,"  said  Johnny. 
"  Ursula  would  tell  you  her  business  was  to  get  the  girl  in 
somewhere,  by  any  means.  That's  what  they  call  charity, 
—  political  jobbing's  nothing  to  it."  Having  thus  amused 
himself,  he  added, — "  I  dare  say  Ursula  wanted  to  spare 
the  old  freak  fretting  as  well.  Only  she  might  have 
chosen  a  better  way  of  doing  it,  that's  all.  If  she'd  seen 
the  state  she  was  in  to-night  —  well  — "  John  cast  about 
for  a  comparison,  but  none  seemed  adequate'.  "  Not 
worth  it,  you  know,"  he  finished,  frowning.  "  No  fun." 

His  father  was  not  naturally  sympathetic,  but  it  did 
occur  to  him  at  this  juncture  that  the  boy's  own  nerves 
might  have  suffered  in  the  interview,  since  he  had  un- 
doubtedly inherited  that  womanish  commodity  from  some 
quarter  of  the  family :  and  also  that,  for  the  same  reason, 
he  had  probably  maneuvered  Miss  Darcy  the  "  freak  " 
extremely  well,  during  the  short  time  granted  him  for 
the  operation.  Neither  of  these  two  thoughts  had  oc- 
curred to  Mr.  Ingestre  before,  and  it  was  hard  to  say  what 
could  prompt  them ;  unless  it  was  a  likeness  to  Agatha, 
crossing  Johnny's  face  as  he  stood  reflecting,  half  turned 
away.  In  reflection,  he  often  had  a  look  of  her, —  it  was 
true  Mr.  Ingestre's  own  family  did  not  waste  much  time 
over  the  art. 


282  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  girl  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  happen  to, —  yes.  She's  an  artist,  and  highly  im- 
pressionable,—  the  usual  thing.  A  bad  man,  really  bad, 
could  get  her  under  his  thumb.  Not  a  common  black- 
guard, because  she's  not  a  common  girl." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  said  his  father.  "  Second- 
hand?" 

"  First-hand,"  said  Johnny.  "  So  do  you  if  you  were 
attending.  She  played  Celia  and  Rosalind  in  succession 
under  your  nose,  that  Sunday  at  my  place." 

"Good — Gad!"  Mr.  Ingestre  shifted  his  position, 
interested.  "  Oh,  well,  granted  a  genius,  of  course,  any- 
thing may  occur.  You  won't  see  the  painting  again  in 
your  lifetime,  Johnny." 

"  You've  stopped  suspecting  Miss  Darcy,  have  you  ?  " 
said  Johnny.  "  I  thought  you  might,  in  time." 

"If  you're  inventing  this "  said  his  father  wrath- 

fully. 

"  I'm  not.  Only  I've  no  more  evidence  against  the  one 
than  the  other.  If  anything,  the  betting's  against  Darcy, 
because  she  knows  the  value  of  the  thing,  and  the  girl  does 
not." 

"  She  might,  of  the  pearls,"  grunted  Mr.  Ingestre.  It 
was  a  poor  contention,  as  the  pearls  were  worth  about  a 
quarter  of  the  painting,  signed  as  it  was  by  a  celebrated 
hand.  "  And  she  might  have  heard  the  patronne  talking," 
he  proceeded. 

"  That  shows  how  little  you  know  our  bearded  friend," 
said  Johnny.  "  Her  discretion's  absolute,  and  she  has 
shown  the  thing,  she  insists,  to  nobody.  She  carried  it 
with  her  once  to  a  museum,  to  compare  with  a  replica  or 
something :  and  when  she  got  back  she  was  tired,  and  gave 
it,  still  wrapped  up,  to  the  girl  to  put  away.  Miss  Celia 
did  so  under  her  eyes,  and  brought  her  back  the  key. 
After  that,  Darcy  was  laid  up  for  a  month,  more  or  less, 
and  has  only  just  discovered  its  absence  from  the  drawer. 
She's  looked,  she  assures  me,  everywhere." 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  283 

"  Has  she  good  eyes?"  said  Mr.  Ingestre. 

"  So  much  so  she's  unable  to  believe  them.  She  made 
me  and  another  man  she  trusts  look  too." 

"Hey?    What  other  man?" 

Johnny  glanced  at  him  under  his  eyelids.  "  A  walking- 
safe  of  a  man,"  he  said  at  leisure.  "  Church,  State,  and 
the  Ten  Commandments.  A  man  even  you  would  trust 
on  sight." 

"  You  know  him,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  do, —  so  does  Granny :  she'd  back  me  up.  Person- 
ally," said  Johnny,  "  I'd  put  the  whole  job  into  young 
Auberon's  hands  on  spec.,  since  he's  already  behind- 
scenes  about  the  girl's  connections.  I  only  want  a  word 
from  you  to  write  to  him." 

"  Auberoh,"  pondered  Mr.  Ingestre.  Momentarily  ab- 
stracted, he  gave  his  son  carte  blanche  to  act  as  he  pro- 
posed, with  unusual  carelessness.  Auberon, —  that  was 
the  name ! 

The  morning's  paper  was  lying  within  reach  of  Johnny's 
hand  on  the  table,  but  Johnny  seemed  completely  incurious 
about  the  fashionable  news  to-day.  Also,  his  father  had 
been  unable,  for  some  reason,  to  broach  the  subject, — 
there  had  been,  he  told  himself,  no  chance. 

Now,  here  was  the  chance,  a  perfectly  natural  opening, 
as  good  as  any  diplomatist  could  desire.  Mr.  Ingestre 
had,  therefore,  to  admit  a  real  unwillingness  to  lead  into 
the  subject,  an  apprehension  as  to  possible  results  that 
grew  by  waiting.  No  sooner  had  he  realized  this  shrink- 
ing in  himself,  than  he  resolved  to  risk  it.  Turning,  he 
cleared  his  throat. 

"  Is  that  the  Post?"  he  began.  "  If  you're  not  using 
it,  I'll  take  a  look." 

Silence  from  Johnny,  who  seemed  not  to  have  heard  the 
remark.  He  was  standing  by  the  table,  in  the  lamplight, 
motionless  as  usual,  when  he  was  not  in  violent  action, 
half  turned  away.  He  seemed  to  be  reading  something, 
with  his  head  bent,  so  his  father  waited  a  little.  He  spent 


284  THE  ACCOLADE 

the  interval  till  he  chose  to  attend  in  taking  stock  of  him, 
as  before,  but  with  something  less  than  his  former  com- 
placency. Some  consideration  had  crept  in  since,  as  it 
seemed,  to  mar  his  contentment  with  his  own  production. 

The  boy  had  mentioned  his  own  "  condition  "  lately, — 
condition  was  the  word.  Johnny  had  the  conscience  of 
his  generation  in  those  matters,  and  he  had  kept  control, 
visibly,  at  every  point.  Admirably,  insolently  "  fit "  to 
the  trainer's  eye,  not  a  doubt  of  it.  That  such  a  figure  of 
a  youth  should  not  have  strong  sons  of  his  own  to  succeed 
him  was  wrong, —  it  was  bad  management, —  on  the  part 
of  the  heavens,  of  course.  In  any  other  case,  Mr.  In- 
gestre  would  have  said  something  ought  to  be  done  about 
it:  in  this  case  it  was  difficult  to  devise  an  alternative 
course  to  that  of  his  own  tradition,  his  own  advice,  which 
Johnny  had  followed  in  marrying  Ursula. 

Agatha  had  warned  him,  another  tiresome  thought. 
Ancient  conversations  with  his  wife  had  haunted  him 
lately.  Agatha  had  implied,  in  clever  phrases  that  re- 
curred to  him,  that  marriage  before  nature  is  ripe  for  it  is 
not  the  way  to  "  settle  "  an  unsettled  youth,  the  contrary. 
She  glorified  marriage,  of  course:  all  women  did.  It  is 
their  specific,  their  talisman, —  never  a  thing  to  be  lightly 
undertaken,  better  any  risk  than  that.  Not  a  duty  above 
all,  for  anybody  on  earth, —  that  was  Agatha's  line,  the 
contention  her  husband's  family  so  easily  overruled. 

For  the  alternative  risk,  in  her  son's  case,  was  great,  as 
she  must  have  known.  His  disposition,  at  that  critical 
turning-point  of  his  youth,  threatened  the  future,  in  more 
ways  than  one.  Even  at  that  age,  Johnny's  perspicacity, 
in  the  matter  of  the  women  who  fawned  on  him,  was 
tremendous,  startling  to  his  father's  self  at  times, —  his 
willfulness  and  wildness,  even  among  his  chosen  courts, 
was  a  by-word,  —  and  it  could  be  easily  argued  he  would 
never  settle,  if  he  did  not  settle  then,  while  the  family  still 
had  him  in  hand. 

It  had  been  so  argued,  and  here  was  the  result, —  not 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  285 

bad,  all  told.  He  spoke  of  his  wife  familiarly,  even  with 
a  kind  of  justice, —  without  fixed  prejudice,  anyhow.  On 
certain  lines  he  respected  her,  John  was  sure.  Whether 
the  essential  lines  —  but  what  are  the  essential  lines,  with 
women,  after  all? 

At  about  this  point  in  his  meditations,  he  became  aware 
that  it  was  not  a  book  his  son  was  holding.  What  he  had 
taken  from  the  writing-table  was  a  portrait,  and  during 
the  long  silence,  believing  himself  unobserved,  he  had 
been  studying  it  minutely. 

"  How  did  you  get  that  ?  "  he  broke  silence  at  last,  be- 
coming conscious  of  his  father's  eyes  upon  him. 

"  What's  that  ?  —  little  Rosalind  ?  She  sent  it  me,  some 
time  since.  .  .  .  Flattered  a  bit,  don't  you  think  ? "  he 
ventured  presently. 

"  No,"  said  Johnny. 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Mr.  Ingestre's  tongue  to  pursue  — 
"  Have  you  heard  she's  engaged  ?  " —  but  he  did  not  say 
it.  He  still  could  not, —  less  than  ever.  His  own  lack  of 
spirit  to  tease  the  boy  really  surprised  himself.  There 
was  no  occasion  for  such  squeamishness.  Had  he  made 
a  fuss,  it  might  have  come  easier :  seeing  the  portrait  in 
his  hands,  his  father  was  quite  prepared  for  a  rash  out- 
break :  to  see  him  claim  it,  cast  it  from  him,  tear  it,  tram- 
ple it,  anything.  He  did  nothing  at  all  but  gaze  in  si- 
lence, holding  it  high,  rather  close  to  him,  in  the  fine  pose 
the  critic  had  noticed  first. 

"  It's  jolly  good,"  he  said,  laying  it  carefully  down 
again,  when  he  had  finished  his  inspection.  "  I  think  I'm 
going  up,  now,  Father, —  good-night." 

Mr.  Ingestre's  pleasant  peace  was  quite  shattered,  by 
this  untoward  incident.  He  wished  to  goodness  he  had 
never  left  the  confounded  thing  about  It  might  even  be 
called  inconsiderate,  granted  the  boy's  state,  had  he 
guessed  it.  But  who  could  guess?  He  had  taken  his 
mother's  word  too  hastily  that  all  was  well,  decently  well 


286  THE  ACCOLADE 

at  least,  and  nothing  doing.  But  now  —  broken !  Broken 
utterly,  and  by  a  girl  of  nineteen !  Johnny's  indifference 
to  making  himself  ridiculous,  that  was  the  worst  sign. 
His  father  knew  well,  in  his  own  experience,  the  worth 
of  that  as  a  symptom.  Mr.  Ingestre  got  up  from  his  com- 
fortable chair,  when  his  son  had  gone,  and  limped  round 
the  study,  and  tossed  things  about,  and  ejaculated  to 
empty  walls,  and  felt  the  want  of  his  wife,  most  bitterly. 

"  He's  been  hanging  things  on  the  trees  up  there,"  said 
John  to  the  shade  of  Agatha,  resentfully.  "  Bad  as  the 
fellow  in  the  play,  what's-his-name  with  the  scrolls, — 
Orlando.  Forget  if  there  are  any  trees  at  Routhwick, 
perhaps  there  aren't,  but  he'll  do  as  bad.  I  tell  you  he 
will :  he's  got  it  in  him.  That's  not  my  side  of  the  family, 
you  know,"  he  pursued  to  Agatha's  shade,  "  it's  yours. 
You're  responsible, —  so  you  can  get  him  out  of  it." 

Then  he  stopped.  Agatha's  tact  and  wisdom  would 
never  get  him  out  of  difficulties  again.  It  struck  him  in 
the  face,  that  thought.  He  sank  into  his  chair  again, 
and  forgot  Johnny. 

IV 

Ursula's  lie  found  its  mark  next  day.  When  or  how 
John  learnt  of  the  published  engagement,  nobody  knew, 
except  that  his  relations  noticed  a  difference  in  him  about 
midday.  He  eyed  the  said  relations  like  enemies  when  he 
met  them,  and  even  that  hardened  warrior,  his  grand- 
mother, dared  not  address  a  word  to  him  at  the  lunch- 
table.  He  looked  at  once  furtive  and  ferocious,  like  a 
creature  caged, —  just  the  look  he  had  had,  his  father 
remembered,  once  before  in  history,  when  baulked  of  his 
fixed  desire.  He  seemed  then,  and  seemed  now,  to  be 
crouching  under  compulsion,  watching  any  chance  to 
spring  clear,  and  follow  the  course,  the  one  possible 
course,  on  which  his  lowering  eyes  were  set.  He  was  not 
at  all,  for  his  natural  authorities,  an  encouraging  spec- 
tacle, and  they  did  not  look  at  him  more  than  necessary. 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  287 

They  shunted  the  burden  of  him  on  to  the  doctor,  who 
was  inclined  in  any  case  to  retain  him  on  the  upper  floor. 

During  that  day  and  most  of  the  next,  he  had  to  bear 
it,  since  his  mother  had  her  periods  of  comparative  ease, 
and  asked  for  him  invariably.  Tied  to  home,  he  devoured 
his  heart  in  silence.  Then,  at  the  first  chance, —  woe  on 
Ursula  had  she  known  —  he  went  straight  to  Violet. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  an  unheard-of  hour 
for  calling,  but  that  was  nothing  in  his  mood.  He  sent 
in  his  card  with  two  words  scrawled  on  it, — "  three 
minutes,"  were  the  words, —  and  she  admitted  him.  She 
knew  of  course  she  had  to,  he  could  not  suppose  she  would 
refuse ;  yet,  still  observant  of  all  forms,  he  entered  quietly, 
mastering  himself  in  deference  to  her  state.  So  would 
John's  wild  ancestors  have  deferred  to  woman,  no  doubt, 
on  this  occasion  only :  in  his  black  modern  garb  he  merely 
followed  an»..ancient  rule. 

She  was  in  occupation  of  her  husband's  room,  and  in 
his  chair,  doing  nothing  for  a  wonder, —  possibly  waiting 
for  him:  alone,  that  was  the  chief  thing,  all  Johnny 
asked.  He  crossed  the  room  and  kneeling  by  her,  laid 
the  printed  slip  before  her  eyes,  while  his  own  eyes  asked 
mutely,  "  Is  it  true  ?  " 

She  read  through  the  slip  with  her  brows  rising.  Then 
she  looked  at  him.  She  had  expected  some  change  when 
they  met,  something  to  match  the  change  she  had  found 
in  Helena,  that  unforgettable  evening:  but  she  was  hardly 
prepared  for  what  she  saw.  He  was  quite  different, — 
nothing  she  had  ever  known. 

"  I  can't  say,"  she  answered  his  mute  appeal.  "  She  has 
not  written  to  me,  and  I  have  seen  nobody  for  weeks.  It 
must  be  true,  I  suppose.  I  am  astonished,  John." 

"  You  don't  know  it  to  be  false  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  feel,"  said  Violet,  "  as  if  it  is.  She  has  mentioned 
that  young  man  to  me,  but  not  like  that."  She  covered 
her  eyes. 

"  I'll  go, —  you're  tired,"  said  Johnny  resigned. 


288  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  I'm  not, —  I'm  thinking."  She  dropped  her  hand  and 
turned  the  slip  over.  "  Which  paper  ?  —  it  is  out  of  sea- 
son, of  course.  Mistakes  occur."  She  read  through  the 
notice,  very  carefully.  "  Isn't  it  usual  to  give  the  full 
name?  Helena  Frances  is  her  name,  she  told  me  once." 

"  Who  draws  up  the  notice  ?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  The  girl's  people,  as  a  rule." 

"  Sure  ? "  He  pressed  her  keenly.  "  Our  side  did 
mine,  I'm  positive." 

"  Aren't  you  apt  to  be  exceptional  ?  I  did  my  own," 
said  Violet.  "  Everything  the  girl's  mother  should  do,  I 
did." 

"  Have  you  a  second  name  ?  " 

"  Yes,  John,  I  have  yours.  And  I  put  it  into  my  an- 
nouncement under  direction.  I'd  back  Father  for  formal- 
ities against  anyone  in  London.  The  full  name  is  cer- 
tainly usual." 

"  You're  an  angel,"  said  Johnny,  his  strained  face  clear- 
ing slightly.  "  Then  you  think  it  might  be  a  fake  ?  — 
but  whose  ?  " 

"  It's  wild  to  assume  it's  a  fake  on  that  evidence,"  she 
said.  "If  Helena's  father  wrote  it,  he  might  forget  she 
had  a  second  name.  Or  they  might  want  to  drop  it,  for 
some  reason.  That  is  simply  support  to  the  evidence  — 
internal  —  that  I  have." 

"  I  shall  go  on  to  the  office,"  declared  Johnny,  snatch- 
ing the  slip.  There  was  a  pause,  while  he  still  knelt  at 
her  side. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  had  better?  "  she  said  gently.  "  To 
question  such  a  thing  is  unusual  —  and  you  are  conspicu- 
ous, John." 

"Curse  it!"  he  said  low.  "All  right,  I'll  leave  it. 
They  all  combine  to  torture  me.  You're  a  little  angel,  all 
the  same."  He  held  her  wrist  a  minute,  as  though  he 
knew  he  should  go,  and  could  not.  "  Three  minutes  is 
up,"  he  remarked,  and  still  waited,  biting  his  lip. 

"  No  hope?  "  said  Violet. 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  289 

"  Mother  ?  Oh,  none  whatever,  but  that  it'll  finish 
soon."  He  gazed  about  her,  still  with  that  look  of  a 
thing  entrapped.  "  I'm  mad,  with  this  life.  I  shall  go 
mad,"  he  asseverated.  "  I  tell  you,  if  they're  driving  her 
into  this,  they  can  look  to  themselves.  She  shan't  be 
coerced " 

"  You  mean,  you  prefer  to  coerce  her." 

"  I  don't.  It's  not  necessary.  I  tell  you  it's  not ! 
She'd  come  of  her  own  accord,  if  I  made  a  sign.  She 
loves  me,  Violet." 

"  I  know." 

"You  do?  —  Of  course  you  know!"  The  radiance 
crossed  his  face,  all  the  same,  to  hear  it  spoken.  He  had 
clutched,  and  was  hurting,  her  hand.  "  And  perhaps  you 
know  I  love  her?  Well  then  —  She'd  come  to  me, —  I'd 
die  for  her, —  what  more's  there  to  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  for  me." 

"  'Cause  you're  tired  ?  "  he  asked,  searching  her  swiftly. 
"  No,  no, —  I  see, — 'cause  you've  got  it  all.  Well,  haven't 
you  ? "  She  nodded,  shrinking  almost.  "  You've  too 
much,"  he  triumphed,  "  you  know  it, —  more  than  your 
share.  Very  well,  give  me  mine.  You  know  what  I 
want,  it's  not  so  unusual.  Put  it  into  words,  since  that's 
your  line.  Let's  hear  a  good  woman  tell  the  truth  for 
once, — 'stead  of  quoting !  " 

"  You've  a  right  to  your  share,"  she  said  faintly. 
"  Like  Charles, —  like  any  man, —  of  course  you  have." 

"  Good,  then, —  you  give  me  leave."  His  whole  power- 
ful will  was  concentrated  on  her,  driving  her  to  speak  the 
thing  he  wished. 

"What's  my  leave?"  she  flashed,  at  bay.  "John,  I 
can't  argue,  can't  you  see?  If  you  come  to  me  now,  in 
that  name,  I  can  only  say  one  thing." 

"  Pass  me, —  hey  ?  "     She  nodded. 

"  Shocking !  "  he  jibed  mechanically :  but  he  was  caught, 
as  his  subsequent  silence  proved.  Her  simple  concur- 
rence reached  him  more  easily  than  any  argument,  since 


2QO  THE  ACCOLADE 

he  was  in  a  mood  to  rout  argument,  to  relish  routing  it. 
Instead  of  that,  he  found  her  at  his  side.  Johnny  was  not- 
certain  he  approved  of  it,  but  it  soothed  him  to  be  sup- 
ported simultaneously,  so  his  feelings  were  mixed.  He 
allowed  her  to  lean  back  in  her  chair,  and  waited,  absorb- 
ing her  peace. 

"  It's  so  terrible,"  she  murmured  presently.  "  She  was 
so  young,  as  young  as  my  Margery  when  they  played 
together.  And  then  —  that  night  you  had  seized  her, 
John.  I  can't  forget." 

"  No,"  he  assented.  "  It  scared  you  too."  Diverting 
his  eyes,  he  dwelt  on  his  own  memories.  He  had  worn 
his  memories  to  rags  by  dwelling  on  them,  fruitlessly. 

"  But  that  means,"  he  said,  with  a  flash  of  prevision, 
"  she  could  get  over  it,  grow  through  it, —  doesn't  it  ? 
Doesn't  it,  Violet?  Youth  means  that." 

"  She  will  never  forget,"  said  Violet. 

"  Think  not  ? "  he  said,  half  eager,  half  mocking. 
"  You  know,  it's  deuced  odd, —  I  can't  remember  what  I 
said.  Generally,  I  could  make  'em  remember,  at  least, 
but  —  Odd  little  things  women  are !  I  can't  follow  the 
way  they  think.  .  .  .  And  as  for  argument,"  said  Johnny 
pensively, — "  futile !  " 

"  Futile,"  she  echoed  voicelessly.     His  face  changed. 

"  Don't,  my  dearest  girl,"  he  said,  sudden  and  low. 
"  I've  no  right  to  rag  you,  and  at  such  an  unholy  hour. 
Not  your  fault  anyhow, —  no,  it  isn't,  you  shut  up ! 
You're  not  as  important  as  all  that  comes  to, —  never 
were.  Nice  of  you  to  see  me,  of  course, —  so  on."  She 
laughed  at  the  characteristic  apology :  and  Johnny,  pleased 
with  her  laughter,  reflected  it  in  a  gleam. 

"  You  were  told  to  keep  out  the  pack  of  us,  weren't 
you?  —  bet  you  were!  Bad  for  you  to  have  raging 
beasts  about  the  place." 

"  You're  not,"  she  protested.  "  Don't  call  yourself 
names,  John.  I  believe  you're  considering, —  taking  into 
consideration, —  even  now," 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  291 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  he  assured  her.  "  It  must  be  Moth- 
er's fault, —  oh,  Lord !  " 

He  remembered  his  duties  again,  groaned,  and  rose. 
He  had  been  crouching  at  her  side  throughout  the  inter- 
view. "  I  didn't  come  for  advice,  anyhow,"  he  remarked, 
as  soon  as  he  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Well,  you  haven't  got  it,  have  you  ?  Nothing  worth 
coming  for,  anyhow." 

"  I  never  regard  kids'  opinions,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Oh,  no, —  I  hoped  you  never  did." 

He  still  did  not  laugh,  though  he  waited  beside  her  an 
instant  longer.  "  I  never  knew  anyone  just  like  you,"  he 
said.  "  Except  my  mother, —  you're  her  kind." 

With  that,  he  kissed  the  little  hand  he  had  half  crushed 
in  his  bitter  debating,  and  went,  sudden  and  swift,  about 
his  business.  It  was  a  fact  he  had  come  more  to  think  in 
her  society,  than  to  take  advice.  He  just  registered  a 
note  in  passing  of  her  attitude  to  Helena,  as  of  his  moth- 
er's towards  Ursula  in  a  former  interview.  The  claims 
of  youth,  a  plea  for  the  thing  unmade,  that  was  the  only 
platform  Violet  stood  upon,  and  who  with  better  right? 
That  aspect  of  things, —  her  aspect, —  had  risen  quite 
unbidden  in  Johnny's  mind  as  he  knelt  beside  her,  risen 
to  fade  again,  but  it  had  been  there.  He  absorbed  it  in 
his  fashion  from  the  fact  of  her,  her  surroundings,  and 
her  situation:  as  for  any  words  she  used,  they  slipped 
away. 

Except,  indeed,  in  the  practical  matter  of  the  printed 
announcement.  Her  comment  on  that  was  worth  storing 
word  for  word,  since  it  gave  Johnny  a  loophole,  made 
life  worth  pursuing  till  the  following  day,  when  Helena's 
little  letter  was  handed  to  him,  and  glorified  a  passing 
hour  with  its  healing  ray  of  truth. 

Helena  little  knew  how  he  needed  her  prayers  that  day, 
for  his  mother's  condition  was  terrible,  and  hardest,  of 
course,  upon  him.  The  day  following  that  again,  the 


292  THE  ACCOLADE 

printed  lie  was  formally  contradicted  in  the  morning  news, 
with  an  editor's  apology  that  caught  attention  by  its 
somewhat  cutting  style.  Tempers,  the  casual  reader 
would  surmise,  had  been  lost  over  that  paragraph,  pos- 
sibly between  an  accomplished  editor,  and  an  irate  retired 
Army  Captain  visiting  his  private  room. 

That  same  morning,  Johnny  found  himself,  to  his  im- 
mense relief,  in  a  train,  traveling  back  to  Routhwick. 
How  it  came  about  he  was  hardly  aware:  except  that 
the  great  doctor  with  the  gentle  manners  had  suddenly 
put  his  foot  down.  He  could  do  no  more  good,  said  Sir 
Claude,  and  he  was  doing  himself  harm.  He  had  better 
go  back  to  his  natural  occupations  in  the  north.  Mr. 
Ingestre  grumbled,  but  learning  that  his  wife  herself  had 
expressed  the  wish,  had  to  give  way.  He  conveyed  that, 
generally  speaking,  he  did  not  see  the  use  of  Johnny,  and 
said  various  entirely  true  things  about  him,  his  wife,  and 
his  methods  of  living,  to  his  face.  Johnny  for  once  did 
not  answer,  he  was  too  tired.  Sir  Claude  answered  for, 
him,  effectively,  when  he  had  left  the  room. 

Johnny,  having  all  the  newspapers  in  the  train,  a  store 
of  cigarettes,  and  plenteous  leisure  during  his  long  jour- 
ney, not  to  mention  a  calm  of  mind,  owing  to  Helena, 
Violet,  and  so  forth,  that  he  had  not  enjoyed  for  days, 
took  the  editorial  paragraphs  in  the  Post  very  carefully 
to  pieces,  and  drew  his  own  conclusions  from  them:  to 
wit,  that  neither  of  those  irate  gentlemen  had  found  a 
scapegoat:  which  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  the  fake, 
with  the  exception  of  that  one  slip  Violet  had  noticed, 
had  been  uncommonly  well  done. 

Very  good.  It  was  "  one  to  the  kid,"  and  he  might  or 
might  not  let  her  know  it.  He  would  see.  It  was  clear 
that  some  young  rotter  had  faked  old  Falkland's  signa- 
ture,—  or  Mrs.  Falkland's,  was  it?  —  which  did  Violet 
say  ?  Johnny's  eyebrows  went  up  at  this  point,  and  then 
down  again.  He  had  an  idea. 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  293 

He  lit  a  second  ciragette,  dropped  all  the  papers  about 
the  floor,  and  collapsed  in  a  comfortable  attitude,  his  chin 
on  his  bent  arm  against  the  window,  and  his  eyes  on  the 
fleeting  country  beyond  the  train.  It  was  hideous  black- 
ened country  for  the  most  part,  so  Johnny  did  not  look 
at  it,  he  looked  within.  He  looked  at  all  kinds  of  things, 
casually,  since  he  wanted  to  enjoy  his  smoke  as  well. 
Then,  just  for  the  joke  of  it,  he  began  to  put  them  to- 
gether. Certainly,  it  hooked  together  nicely  rather,  when 
you  came  to  try:  that  defective  notice,  the  irate  denial, 
Violet's  useful  remarks  concerning  mothers,  and  his  own 
more  useful  observations  concerning  wives.  Wives  in 
general, —  Johnny's  wife.  Curious!  Most  quaint. 

He  lit  a  third  cigarette,  with  an  air  of  business,  and 
retracked  his  whole  acquaintance  with  Ursula,  which  had 
not  been  an  unpleasant  one,  exclusively,  to  judge  by  his 
face.  His  face, —  which  reflected  all  his  thoughts, 
whether  people  were  there  to  look  at  him  or  not, —  con- 
tained some  pleasing  memories.  But  still,  he  felt  sur- 
prised. It  was,  so  to  speak,  out  of  order.  But  it  had  its 
share  of  entertainment  too.  Johnny  might  be  wrong,  of 
course, —  he  had  been,  once  or  twice  in  his  career, —  but 
certainly,  it  looked  as  if  she  cared.  A  little,  let  us  say, — 
she  cared  a  bit, —  not  quite  such  a  stone  wall  as  she 
seemed.  A  mad  caprice  like  that, —  a  nice,  respectable, 
well-bred  girl  — 

Johnny's  expression  grew  pensive, —  what  the  novelists 
call  wistful, —  beautiful,  indeed.  It  was  a  pity  that,  and 
his  easeful  attitude,  were  entirely  thrown  away  on  the 
only  other  occupant  of  the  railway-carriage,  a  venerable 
gentleman  in  the  further  corner,  reading  the  Church 
Times.  At  his  fourth  cigarette,  this  gentleman  gave 
him  a  reproachful  glance, —  professionally  reproachful, 
—  and  opened,  with  a  jerk,  and  his  lips  set  clerically,  the 
other  window.  Johnny  drawled — "Thanks," — to  this 
maneuver,  and  put  him  out.  He  could  not  stand  people 
with  mouths  like  that.  Then  he  relapsed  into  his  lei- 


294  THE  ACCOLADE 

surely  thoughts  again.  The  country  was  getting  cleaner, 
the  fields  less  tired,  the  water  more  lively,  so  that  cap- 
tured some  of  them,  naturally.  The  heavy  nightmare  he 
had  left  behind  him  retarded  a  few  more.  But  what 
remained  were  placid,  and  not  without  a  consoling  quality. 
' '  As  it  was  in  the  beginning,' "  he  concluded. 
"  They're  all  the  same." 

He  concluded  it,  by  an  oversight,  aloud.  A  sudden 
rustle  reminded  him  of  the  venerable  party  in  the  corner, 
who  had  turned  and  was  glaring  at  him.  Johnny,  who 
had  not  noticed  till  that  minute  that  he  wore  black  gaiters, 
apologized  for  the  quotation.  He  said  it  was  odd  how 
tags  of  things,  like  that,  stuck  in  one's  head. 

After  the  Archdeacon,  or  whatever  he  was,  had  got 
out, —  he  got  out  at  the  next  station, —  Johnny  did  not 
look  to  see  whether  he  got  in  again,  further  down  the 
train, —  Mr.  Ingestre  turned  to  business,  and  wrote  a  let- 
ter which  had  been  delayed,  the  letter  to  young  Auberon. 
The  last  day  or  two  he  had  not  wanted  to  think  about 
young  Auberon,  naturally :  now  that  Helena  had  acquitted 
him,  Johnny  could  turn  his  thoughts  that  way  again.  It 
was  time,  full  time,  to  make  a  move  in  the  matter  of  the 
Hope  miniature,  it  was  not  a  thing  which,  however  his 
father  might  rag  him,  he  could  really  afford  to  let  slide. 
He  had  spent  another  difficult  hour  the  preceding  day  in 
manipulating  Miss  Darcy,  and  had  decided  nothing  more 
could  be  done  with  her.  Nor  need  to  be  done,  thought 
Johnny,  since  she  had  let  drop  a  fact  which  practically 
fixed  the  blame  upon  the  girl. 

The  letter  he  wrote  to  Quentin  in  the  train  was  exceed- 
ingly clever, —  smart,  like  all  his  business  dealings,  con- 
densed and  curt.  He  put  the  case  as  he  saw  it,  and  asked 
Quentin,  as  a  favor,  to  deal  with  it  if  he  could.  He  did 
not  want,  he  said,  to  prosecute  anybody  if  it  could  be 
avoided,  or  at  any  rate  until  he  must  He  was  courteous, 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  295 

but  quite  firm.  He  said  Quentin  would  recognize  the 
gravity  of  the  situation,  in  the  value  of  the  article. 

That  was  exactly  the  thing  of  which  Quentin,  receiving 
the  letter,  had  not  had  the  least  idea :  and  it  was  the  thing 
which,  grave  official  as  he  was,  made  it  imperative  he 
should  act  at  once.  He  had  imagined,  of  course,  that 
poor  Miss  Darcy,  in  her  agitation  and  anxiety,  had  magni- 
fied the  trinket's  importance,  and  her  fault  in  one :  but  he 
now  recognized  she  had  not  done  so.  It  appeared  the 
thing  had  been  valued  by  experts  once  or  twice,  when  the 
French,  or  legitimate  connections  of  the  little  pink-robed 
Marechale  had  made  the  marauding  Ingestres  offers  for 
the  picture.  The  prices  put  upon  it  differed  according  to 
the  fashion  and  the  date,  but  they  were  all  so  high  as  to 
make  the  notion  of  a  crime,  in  connection  with  it,  more 
probable  on  the  instant.  Obviously,  as  Ingestre  said,  it 
was  a  serious  thing. 

Likewise  Quentin  admitted,  since  Ingestre  was  the  suf- 
ferer to  that  extent  by  the  loss,  he  had  a  perfect  right  of 
dictating  methods  for  the  thing's  recovery.  Much  as  he 
himself  detested  the  business,  little  time  as  he  had  to 
engage  in  it,  he  could  not  complain  at  being  employed.  It 
was  even  considerate,  from  their  point  of  view,  to  employ 
him.  He  thought  once  of  his  aunt, —  consulting  her  any- 
how,—  but  decided  against  it.  Ingestre  had  appealed,  in 
confidence,  to  him. 

Likewise  he  could  not  but  see  the  direct  pointing  of  the 
evidence,  just  as  Johnny  did:  and  above  all  that  of  the 
last  most  damaging  little  fact  he  had  collected  from  Miss 
Darcy.  This  was  simply  that  the  drawer  in  which  Jill 
had  been  seen  to  place  the  miniature,  and  which  she  had 
appeared  to  lock,  had  been  found  unlocked  the  day  Miss 
Darcy  discovered  the  treasure's  disappearance.  It  was  a 
very  black  little  fact,  for  it  suggested  foresight,  and  the 
habit  of  cunning  and  concealment,  such  as  might  well 
have  been  derived  from  Jill's  parentage.  She  could  not 


296  THE  ACCOLADE 

take  it  at  the  time,  but  she  prepared  the  way  for  taking  it 
later,  when  her  benefactress's  eyes  were  off  her.  It  was 
bad,  certainly ;  almost  as  bad  as  it  could  be ;  Ingestre  was 
right. 

As  for  Miss  Darcy's  self,  Johnny's  little  plea  to  exon- 
erate her,  though  short,  was  eloquent :  and  Quentin,  who 
had  had  the  same  ideas  about  her,  more  vaguely,  felt  it  the 
more.  He  liked  all  the  letter,  but  he  liked  that  part  the 
best,  it  matched  his  own  sentiments  so  precisely.  Johnny 
knew  the  bearded  one,  so  he  pleasantly  declared,  better 
than  she  did  herself :  since  obviously  she  conceived  herself, 
in  her  present  state,  capable  of  any  folly  or  forgetfulness. 
She  could  not  possibly  be  fraudulent,  he  said,  and  was 
most  unlikely  to  be  negligent,  in  those  matters  which  had 
been  the  chief  interest  of  her  life.  Her  collection  was  her 
hobby, —  a  spinster's  hobby, —  which,  otherwise  stated, 
meant  the  thing  round  which  the  best  of  her  brain  re- 
volved,—  the  thing  which  a  family  would  have  been  in 
happier  circumstances.  Instead  of  beastly  lap-dogs,  said 
Johnny,  she  had  beautiful  knick-knacks,  enamels  and 
paintings,  that  was  all.  She  would  sooner  have  died  than 
either  assume  possession  in  secret  of  a  thing  that  was  not 
hers,  or  leave  the  said  thing,  unguarded,  in  an  open 
drawer.  Even  if  her  reason  was  tottering, —  which  it  was 
not, —  habit,  lifelong  habit,  would  have  been  too  much  for 
her  there. 

"  Granted,"  said  Quentin,  after  an  instant's  reflection : 
and  he,  like  Johnny,  set  the  "  bearded  one  "  aside.  Well 
then 

He  met  Jill  in  the  square  garden,  of  which  Miss  Darcy 
had  a  key.  He  summoned  her  there  by  letter,  preferring 
that  Miss  Darcy,  who  still  upheld  the  girl's  innocence, 
should  not  know.  Jill  might  ask  for  the  key  after  dinner, 
he  suggested,  to  have  a  little  walk.  That  such  a  proposal 
on  his  part  would  be  likely  to  raise  Jill's  poor  little  hopes 
to  the  skies,  he  never  reflected,  his  mind  being  set  on  far 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  297 

more  serious  things.  That  her  mind  was  set,  in  advance, 
on  him,  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  inessential.  It  was  also 
foolish,  extremely  silly  at  her  age.  It  was  a  hot  summer 
evening  when  this  —  to  her  —  delightful  clandestine  meet- 
ing took  place.  She  met  him  just  without  the  garden,  and 
let  him  into  it,  with  charming,  childish  importance.  Even 
to  him,  she  seemed  younger  than  usual  that  evening, — 
pretty  and  gay. 

There  were  still  two  ways  of  it  possible  to  his  mind,  of 
course:  that  Jill  had  taken  the  thing  for  her  own  pur- 
poses, to  raise  money  upon,  for  her  amusement,  or  even  in 
a  spirit  of  passing  spite  to  tease  Miss  Darcy :  and  that  she 
had  been  used  as  a  cat's-paw  by  her  father.  Ingestre  in 
his  letter  guessed  the  latter,  not  knowing  the  girl  at  all, 
only  knowing  of  her  circumstances,  from  his  wife.  Con- 
sequently, Quentin  began  upon  his  old  tack  of  investiga- 
tion, duty-bound. 

But  no :  she  denied  all  knowledge  of,  sight  of,  or  com- 
munication with,  her  father.  She  put  herself  right,  in- 
stantly and  eagerly,  in  Quentin's  eyes,  so  as  to  begin  that 
pleasant  stroll  together  in  the  twilight  on  the  best  of  terms. 
Jill  often  wondered  why  Mr.  Auberon  was  so  curious 
about  her  father,  when  she  disliked  him  so, —  disliked  him 
increasingly, —  wanted  to  finish  with  him  altogether. 
However,  she  gave  in  to  that  little  fad  of  his,  and  assured 
him  that  she  had  long  been  at  liberty,  utterly  undisturbed. 
Her  father,  most  probably,  was  out  of  London.  He 
might  be  at  the  end  of  Europe,  for  her. 

Then  he  told  her  about  Ingestre's  treasure, —  he  called 
it  a  "  little  picture," —  and  the  history  of  the  loss  by  easy 
stages.  He  could  not  put  the  case  complete,  for  the  relief 
of  his  own  mind,  because  she  interrupted  him. 

"  The  dark  one  who  speaks  so  well  ? "  said  Jill,  of 
Johnny.  "  I  don't  like  him  much,"  she  added  reassur- 
ingly. "  But  she  is  always  better  the  days  he  comes." 

Quentin,  ignoring  this  sort  of  thing,  proceeded. 

"Lost?"  said  Jill. 


298  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Well,  disappeared.     Miss  Darcy  can't  find  it." 

"  Miss  Darcy  ? "  cried  Jill.  "  She  cannot  look  for 
things, —  she  cannot  move  about."  Her  violence  in- 
creased of  a  sudden.  "  She  is  an  old,  silly,  ugly  thing. 
Pulling  drawers  open,  and  shutting  them,  and  talking  to 
herself.  As  if  I  had  not  seen  her.  Of  course  she  has 
put  it  somewhere." 

"  Ingestre  looked  as  well,"  observed  Quentin. 

"  Men !  "  said  Jill,  with  exquisite  contempt.  "  They 
cannot  find  things.  When  he  loses  things  at  home,  his 
wife  looks  for  him.  He  sits  in  a  chair." 

Quentin  looked  in  front  of  him,  trying  not  to  be  amused. 
She  certainly  knew  Ingestre,  for  he  had  seen  the  very 
thing  she  described  take  place. 

"  Then  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  it's  useless  to  mention  that 
I  looked  too." 

"  You  ?    You  looked  for  her  ?    When  ?  " 

"  Some  time  ago." 

"  Some  time?     And  you  did  not  ask  me  to  look?  " 

"  She  did  not  want  to  worry  you." 

"  Old  fool,"  said  Jill.  After  this  ungrateful  remark  she 
waited  a  little.  Her  aspect,  her  color  had  visibly  changed, 
he  noticed. 

"Of  course,  then,  she  has  dropped  it  in  the  street,"  said 
Jill.  "  Her  hand  shakes, —  you  have  seen  it." 

"  Yes,  but  she  has  not  dropped  it.  She  had  it  last  in 
the  house." 

He  explained  about  the  last  appearance  of  the  precious 
packet,  and  then  the  little  matter  of  the  open  drawer.  He 
was  extremely  clear,  and  as  kind  as  he  could  manage.  He 
tried  to  believe  in  her  still,  he  really  wanted  to, —  only,  she 
had  not  enquired  yet  what  the  thing  that  was  lost  was 
like.  Surely  that  was  the  natural  question,  since  it  had 
been  wrapped  in  paper  when  she  handled  it.  Quentin  had 
called  it  "  a  little  picture  "  simply.  The  alert  policeman 
in  him  could  not  be  overcome,  and,  owing  to  her  soft  man- 
ner, it  obtained  every  moment  more  ascendancy. 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  299 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  as  easily  as  he  could,  "  nobody 
likely  to  tamper  with  such  a  thing  could  have  been  in  the 
front  room  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Ingestre,"  said  Jill,  on  the  instant.  "  Extremely 
likely.  He  would  take  it  away  one  day,  and  then  he  would 
come  back  to  frighten  her.  He  would  frighten  her  rather 
well.  And  she  would  shake  all  over,  and  her  eyes  stick 
out.  That  would  be  amusing  for  him.  He  finds  every- 
thing in  the  world  amusing, —  me  as  well." 

"  Ingestre  doesn't  laugh  at  you,"  said  Quentin,  "  come !  " 

"  He  does.  He  laughs  at  my  leg.  He  is  very  amused, 
the  way  I  walk  about.  He  brings  that  woman  flowers, — 
he  never  brings  flowers  to  me.  I  am  better  than  she  is, 
prettier,  but  he  does  not  think  of  me,  I  am  a  servant.  He 
hates  me,  because  I  acted  better  than  him.  I  did,  he  can- 
not forget  it.  He  looks  at  me  in  that  fashion,  because  of 
that." 

Quentin,  impatient  of  her  egoism,  did  not  reply.  This 
was  her  way,  either  to  appear  exaggeratedly  conscious  of 
her  lameness,  or  else  obstinately  to  disregard  it.  Either 
method  vexed  his  straightforward  mind.  Why  not  ad- 
mit her  disadvantage  simply,  and  accept  the  sympathy  and 
help  they  were  all  ready  to  offer? 

Silence,  in  the  summer  dusk,  fell  between  them.  What 
Jill's  thoughts  were,  he  could  not  gather,  it  was  getting  too 
dark  to  study  her  face.  She  was  panting  a  little,  he 
noticed,  with  the  effort  of  her  last  rapid  speech.  As  for 
her  eyes,  they  were  fixed  across  the  garden, —  there  was 
another  couple  strolling  in  the  distance,  and  she  might 
have  been  observing  those. 

"  It  would  surprise  you  very  much  if  I  found  the  pic- 
ture ?  "  she  queried  at  last,  sweetly,  and  curling  round  his 
arm. 

"  No,"  said  Quentin,  troubled  at  once.  "  I  hope  you 
will." 

"You  hope  it?  Really?  Well,  listen.  I  will  look,— 
and  find.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  will  find.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 


300  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Very  good,"  said  Quentin,  still  troubled.  Why  would 
she  not  be  straight? 

"  And  when  I  —  shall  have  found,  you  will  thank  me. 
Yes?" 

"  We  all  shall,"  he  said. 

"You,"  said  Jill.  Silence.  "You  are  content?"  she 
asked. 

"  Nearly."     The  policeman  bit  his  lip. 

"What  else?    Tell  me." 

"  Well,  I  had  better  describe  the  thing  to  you,  hadn't  I  ? 
Before  you  look  for  it." 

"Describe?" 

"  It  was  wrapped  up,  of  course,  when  you  put  it  away." 

"  Good,"  said  Jill.  "  Yes,  it  was  wraped  up  all  nicely, 
with  a  little  string.  And  it  will  be  wrapped  up  when  T 
find  it,  when  I  bring  it  to  you,  just  the  same.  Be  sure  of 
that."  She  dropped  his  arm. 

"  Then  I  need  not  tell  you  any  more."  He  stopped 
short,  facing  her,  looking  her  in  the  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  said  softly,  looking  back  with  her  strange 
seductive  smile,  her  strange  unfixed  gaze,  that  seemed 
hardly  to  see  him.  "  I  shall  not  trouble  you, —  you  have 
no  need." 

Confession,  was  it  not?  More  than  that,  she  flattered 
his  one  weakness,  his  weakness  for  government,  for  influ- 
ence. She  would  return  that  beautiful  thing  that  had  been 
taken  in  a  moment  of  mischief  or  covetousness, —  very 
natural,  in  the  little  poverty-stricken  artist  that  she  was, — 
for  his  sake.  That  is,  owing  to  his  power  of  persuasion 
and  his  skillful  handling.  She  promised  it. 

And  that  indeed  was  Jill's  intention,  as  she  hastened, 
gracefully  limping,  back  to  the  house. 


Though  John  said  little  to  Ursula  on  his  return  to 
Routhwick,  she  gathered  that  in  the  self-imposed  penance 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  301 

she  was  undergoing  there,  she  had  small  prospect  of  imme- 
diate release.  He  had  parted  with  his  mother,  he  told 
her  shortly :  but  from  other  sources  of  information  in  the 
family  letters,  Ursula  learned  that,  though  Agatha  was 
dead  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  news  of  her  last 
breath  might  still  be  months  ahead.  Thus  John  could  go 
about  his  duties  with  a  free  mind,  or  at  least  unhampered 
by  suspense ;  and  John's  wife  could  still  postpone  her 
mourning,  and  amuse  herself,  within  reason,  as  she  would. 

Not  that  she  wished  for  society,  she  explained  to  John. 
To  fill  Routhwick  was  difficult  at  any  time,  it  was  so 
enormous  and  unwieldy ;  to  fill  it  with  an  ordinary  house- 
party,  at  such  a  moment,  would  be  in  exceptionally  bad 
taste;  not  to  mention  that  it  was,  in  her  view,  a  dreary 
place,  suited  to  students  and  sportsmen,  perhaps,  but  use- 
less for  the  ordinary  social  purposes.  Ursula  hated 
Routhwick,  with  its  bare  stone  front  and  large  cold  rooms, 
and  a  mere  pretense  at  grounds  or  garden,  close  under  the 
moors,  and  raked  in  consequence  by  all  the  winds  that 
there  disported.  It  was  ugly,  to  her  view,  at  least  as 
compared  with  the  suavities  of  the  south-country  Hall: 
and  John,  of  course,  was  making  it  as  dull  for  her  as  pos- 
sible,—  that  was  his  way  of  conveying  to  her  that  she 
should  never  have  come  at  all.  At  times  she  regretted  the 
step,  as  his  father  had  prophesied ;  at  others,  it  became 
anew  clear  to  her  consciousness  that  her  duty  was  to  watch 
over  him,  ignore  so  far  as  was  possible  his  marked  ingrat- 
itude, and  recall  him  by  her  patient  presence  and  strict 
attention  to  his  comfort  to  his  family  obligations. 

Unfortunately  Johnny  allowed  her  little  opportunity  of 
comforting  him.  He  resumed  exactly  the  life  he  had  been 
leading  before  he  went  to  London:  rose  early  by  choice, 
and  was  to  and  fro  all  day,  transacting  visits  of  business  or 
diplomacy  in  every  corner  of  the  large  estate.  The  keep- 
ers, the  farmers,  and  Mr.  Fox,  a  vulgar  man  whom  Ursula 
could  hardly  tolerate,  had  most  of  his  society.  Though 
she  rode  well  herself  and  shot  fairly,  John  never  even 


302  THE  ACCOLADE 

suggested  she  should  accompany  them :  and  often  seemed 
to  forget  her  existence  for  days  together,  picking  up 
meals  in  the  country  round  from  anyone  who  offered 
them,  and  not  appearing  at  home  till  nightfall,  too  tired 
and  drunk  with  the  keen  air  to  do  more  than  fall  asleep 
in  his  chair.  Every  day  he  seemed  to  get  handsomer  and 
browner  and  bolder,  and  to  attend  to  her  less :  younger 
too,  alas, —  she  was  feeling  the  difference  in  their  true 
ages  now;  among  the  old  farmers  and  servitors,  the 
weather-beaten  men  of  the  dales,  he  looked  a  boy;  and 
was  treated  —  being  Master  Johnny  at  Routhwick  —  by 
one  and  all  as  such. 

As  for  her  shot  at  him  in  the  dark,  she  could  not  say  if 
it  had  reached  him  even,  wounded  him  still  less.  She 
could  follow  his  thoughts  now  less  than  she  had  ever  done. 
Nothing  in  his  demeanor  seemed  altered,  unless  that  he 
appeared,  if  anything,  a  trifle  more  pleased  with  himself 
than  before.  Ursula  would  have  feared  he  had  missed 
the  report  and  consequent  gossip  about  the  engagement 
altogether, —  but  that  it  was  inconceivable,  considering 
that  he  had  been  in  his  grandmother's  company.  None  of 
the  family,  at  least,  would  let  him  off,  and  old  Mrs. 
Ingestre's  letters  were  full  of  allusions  to  the  amusing  stir 
created,  at  the  height  of  the  slack  season,  by  the  false 
report.  Its  effects  elsewhere  had  been  undoubted,  and 
that  he  alone  could  have  escaped  was  unlikely.  No,  it  was 
probably  nothing  but  obstinacy  and  pride.  He  was  as 
vain  as  ever :  and,  being  a  man,  he  was  also  busy, —  and 
well. 

Ursula  was  neither.  She  was  fagged  and  she  was 
bored,  and  he  would  not  amuse  her.  He  talked  to  her  at 
times,  of  course,  since  he  was  not  a  person  to  be  silent ; 
he  aired  his  own  thoughts  in  her  company,  and  attended 
little  to  her  replies.  She  might  have  been  anybody  or 
nobody,  for  all  the  real  attention  he  gave  her :  and  he 
looked  at  her  like  the  furniture,  with  no  appearance  of 
taking  her  in.  His  odd  times,  and  the  more  desperately 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  303 

rainy  days,  he  spent  over  music,  in  which  again  he  did  not 
choose  to  let  her  share ;  and  in  what  she  supposed  was  his 
writing  or  editing,  conducted  in  strict  privacy  in  a  small 
log-house  or  chalet  that  he  owned,  in  the  wood  beyond  the 
garden. 

This  little  "  Lyke-wood,"  as  the  old  residents  called  it, 
was  a  mere  thicket,  and  shut  in  the  so-called  garden  to  one 
side.  It  was  not  the  least  pretty,  merely  serviceable  for 
protection,  its  component  trees  misshapen,  lichen-covered, 
straining  and  strident  with  that  eternal  moorland  breeze. 
Words  cannot  say  how  weary  Ursula  grew  of  that  sound 
by  night  and  day ;  yet  John  seemed  to  love  it,  listened  to 
it  willingly  like  the  gypsy  he  was.  Men,  Ursula  told 
herself  often,  have  no  nerves. 

It  was  down  in  this  little  camp  of  his  that  she  informed 
John  one  morning  that  she  meant  to  intermit  her  virtuous 
abjuration  of  all  society. 

"  Can  I  come  in  ?  "  she  said,  just  tapping  the  door. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Johnny  politely.  He  looked  at  her 
as  she  entered.  It  was  a  wet  day,  as  usual, —  the  weather 
had  been  bad  since  his  return, —  but  she  was  admirably 
clad  as  always,  and  the  water-drops  on  her  rough  clothes, 
the  slight  crust  of  mud  on  her  strong  shoes,  were  by  no 
means  unsuitable  attributes.  He  knew  she  had  not  been 
well,  but  she  never  looked  otherwise  than  trim  and 
shapely,  though  her  eyes  were  slightly  strained,  he  noted, 
and  her  lips  a  little  pale.  Ursula  always  said  she  was  all 
right  when  he  asked  her,  but  he  knew  pretty  well,  by  this 
time,  when  she  was  not.  For  all  that,  a  dozen  men  of  his 
acquaintance  would  have  called  her  a  fine  girl,  and  a  wife 
to  be  proud  of.  He  only  felt  he  could  have  welcomed,  at 
that  moment,  any  woman  in  the  world  who  looked  a  little 
different. 

"  Am  I  interrupting  you  ?  "  asked  Ursula,  glancing  at 
his  papers,  which  were  freely  strewn  about  the  table. 
John  was  oddly  shy  about  his  writing,  and  she  did  not 
often  disturb  him.  However,  he  appeared  in  a  fairly 


304  THE  ACCOLADE 

good  temper,  so  she  supposed  things  had  been  going 
well. 

"  When  Byron's  wife  asked  that,"  said  Johnny,  still 
scrawling  something,  "  he  said  '  damnably.'  " 

"  I  see, —  so  you  won't." 

Ursula  smiled  faintly,  turning  to  the  fire,  a  tiny  brasier, 
quite  adequate  for  the  small  room.  It  was  a  remarkably 
pleasant  little  place,  Johnny's  log-house,  though  completely 
simple.  It  had  the  air  of  a  settler's  shanty  in  the  back- 
woods, or  something  even  more  primitive  still:  not  with- 
out reason,  since  it  belonged  to  the  period  of  his  youth 
when  books  of  adventure  held  the  foremost  place.  It  was 
strictly  his  own  property, —  his  mother  had  planned  and 
presented  it  to  him  when  he  was  still  a  schoolboy,  so  of 
course  it  suited  him.  Her  portrait  was  over  his  table,  a 
portrait  dating  back  to  that  period,  long  before  Ursula's 
reign.  The  log-house  had  nothing  to  do  with  Ursula,  so 
she  was  naturally  critical.  She  tried  the  dust  on  the  shelf 
above  the  hearth  with  a  finger  while  she  was  speaking,  and 
whisked  a  little  of  it  off,  discontentedly.  It  was  so  hope- 
less to  keep  him  clean.  Johnny  watched  her  with  a  sus- 
picious eye.  It  was  his  dust,  and  she  had  no  business  to 
meddle  with  it. 

"  My  works  aren't  quite  up  to  Byron's,"  he  told  her. 
"  So  I  understand  from  my  publisher." 

"  How  modest."  Mrs.  Ingestre  put  her  hand  to  her 
neck  of  a  sudden,  with  a  frown  Johnny  knew.  It  meant 
neuralgia  —  he  believed :  she  had  never  directly  told  him 
so.  "  How  can  you  live  in  these  draughts,"  she  mur- 
mured, turning  about  to  search  the  walls.  "  Why  on 
earth  don't  you  have  those  holes  stopped  up  ?  " 

Johnny's  eyes  followed  hers  to  one  or  two  nicely  cut 
round  holes  in  the  log-house  walls.  He  speculated  on 
them  a  minute,  his  eyes  widening  gravely.  They  were  not 
very  far  up  the  wall, —  they  had  once  been  as  high  as  his 
shoulders,  they  were  now  about  as  high  as  his  waist.  The 
furious  west  wind,  not  to  mention  the  furious  western 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  305 

rain,  was  chasing  and  flurrying  and  dripping  through 
them.  It  did  make  the  log-house  a  little  draughty,  as 
Ursula  said. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I  couldn't  possibly.  I  might 
want  'em,  any  time.  Stop  'em  up,  indeed, —  I  like  that ! 
They're  loop-holes." 

"  Loop-holes  ?  "  said  Ursula,  perfectly  vague.  "  What 
for?" 

"Rifles,  of  course.  What  d'you  suppose?"  Johnny 
tilted  his  chair  on  to  its  back-legs,  still  speculating  on  his 
surroundings.  "  It  was  the  Indians,  that  night,  I  think, — 
or  Silver's  gang, —  Silver,  probably.  But  you  never  know 
who  mayn't  attack  a  place  like  this, —  have  to  be  ready  for 
anything, —  jolly  well-prepared."  He  glanced  at  the  ceil- 
ing, not  so  far  above  his  head.  "  Luckily  our  defenses 
were  in  order,  thanks  to  the  Captain.  We've  held  it  so 
far.  Only  one  of  ours  was  found  stretched  by  his  loop- 
hole, a  bullet  through  his  heart.  One  of  the  best  of  'em, 
too, —  the  quiet  one.  What  was  his  name  ?  "  He  turned 
on  his  wife. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  Ursula,  without  a  smile. 

"  You  ought  to.  He  was  the  valet, —  body-servant, — 
something  like  Blandy  he  was.  Blandy  would  behave 
like  that  at  a  pinch, —  offer  his  life  for  mine.  ...  I'd  let 
him  know  if  he  didn't,"  added  Johnny. 

"  What  a  baby  you  are,  John,"  said  Ursula  after  a 
pause.  "  Talking  such  nonsense." 

"  I'm  not, —  it's  the  classics.  Not  at  all  stuff  for  babes, 
either, —  you  go  and  look  it  up.  Do  you  a  lot  of  good, 
that  yarn  would.  Just  the  thing  for  you.  Can  you  load 
a  gun  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  can,"  said  Ursula. 

"  That's  not  the  proper  answer,"  said  Johnny,  annoyed. 
"  You're  a  woman,  ain't  you  ?  —  you  look  it.  Very  well 
your  answer  is  — '  No,  alas,  show  me  how/ —  something 
like  that.  Good  Lord,"  said  Johnny,  moved,  "  why,  Violet 
would  have  known  how  to  answer,  better  than  that !  " 


306  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Violet  can't  load  a  gun,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Well,  Barbara,"  said  Johnny  artlessly.  "  Janie 
Clewer, —  any  of  them.  You  don't  seem  to  know  the 
simplest  things."  He  swung  his  chair  back  upon  its  four 
legs  again.  "  Very  good,  then  don't  come  and  disturb  me 

—  er  — Byronically  in  the  log-house.     It  isn't  the  place 
for  you,  and  it  isn't  done.     You're  nothing  but  a  feminine 
female, —  you  go  home."     He  recurred  to  his  papers,  con- 
tentedly. 

Mrs.  Ingestre  did  not  go  home.  She  looked  down  at 
the  brasier  for  a  time, —  she  was  drying  her  feet,  her  nice 
strong  shoe  on  the  fender.  Ursula  always  found  her  feet 
consoling,  they  were  so  well-made :  and  her  neuralgia 
was  feeling  better  for  the  warmth.  It  had  been  furious, 
at  intervals,  during  the  morning,  but  she  had  done  every- 
thing she  should  do,  all  the  same,  and  kept  her  temper,  so 
nobody  had  guessed  she  was  not  completely  well.  She  let 
John  at  the  table  settle  into  something  like  reasonable 
sense  again, —  call  it  his  right  mind.  He  was  toying  with 
the  leaves  of  his  manuscript  now,  smiling  at  something, — 
one  of  his  own  jokes,  probably.  He  was  forgetting  all 
about  her,  rapidly:  and  she  must  speak,  if  she  meant  to, 
soon. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  I've  been  thinking.  I've  no  reason 
to  refuse  people  who  absolutely  ask  to  come  here,  have  I  ? 
We're  not  in  mourning  yet." 

"  We're  not  in  mourning  officially,"  said  Johnny. 

"If  you  object,  I'd  rather  you  said  so,"  said  Ursula. 
"  I  can  get  out  of  it  quite  easily.  It's  only  Mrs.  Falkland 

—  and  one  night." 

There  was  a  pause,  as  she  expected.  He  had  lifted  his 
head  at  the  name. 

"  I  can  do  with  Mrs.  Falkland,  for  one  night,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  But  I  thought  you  said  she  was  abroad." 

"  So  she  is,  or  she  would  not  have  offered  it  probably. 
She  can't  have  heard  the  latest  news  about  your  mother. 
As  it  is,  she  begs  me  not  to  let  them  disturb  me," 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  307 

Another  pause,  while  the  pronouns  sank  in.  "  Them  ?  " 
said  Johnny.  "  Is  the  husband  coming  too  ?  " 

"  No.  It's  not  the  parents  at  all.  It's  for  the  sake  of 
those  children, —  the  walking-party.  They  are  not  far 
off,  and  the  weather's  been  so  bad, —  inns  and  so  on,  I 
quite  understand  it.  Her  getting  worried  about  them,  I 
mean, —  the  least  I  could  do " 

She  stopped,  for  John's  eyes  were  turned  upon  her,  and 
she  could  not  go  on. 

"  The  least  you  could  do  is  to  offer  to  take  the  children 
here  for  a  night.  Considering  your  old  friendship  with 
the  various  parents.  Is  that  it  ?  " 

"If  you  object,  I  won't,"  said  Ursula.  Her  utterance 
failed,  fell  dead.  Johnny  could  still  fight  through  his 
eyes,  and  was  doing  so,  ruthlessly.  "  They  may  refuse,  of 
course "  she  pushed  on. 

"  They  will  not  refuse,"  said  Johnny.  He  flicked  over 
three  leaves  of  his  manuscript, —  like  a  sword-flash,  that 
movement  was.  "  Very  well." 

That  was  like  him,  to  accept  the  challenge, —  take  up 
the  gage, —  only  she  had  not  expected  it.  She  had  very 
nearly  counted  on  his  refusing  point-blank;  especially 
since  he  had  plenteous  excuse  for  the  moment,  and  since 
she  took  him  by  surprise.  But  not  he.  .  .  .  Now  the  die 
was  cast.  She  would  have  now  to  realize  at  leisure  all 
the  risk  she  was  running  in  so  daring  him, —  daring  him 
to  do  his  worst.  It  was  valiant,  in  the  peculiar  style  of 
Ursula's  dull  courage :  valiant  in  the  effort  it  cost  her,  that 
is,  but  incompletely  weighed.  She  reckoned  without  him, 
the  unknown  quantity  that  he  really  was  to  her.  She 
might  regret  it  later.  All  too  probably  she  would. 

And  it  is  notable  that  John,  furious  as  he  was  at  the 
trick,  admired  her.  It  was  abominable,  but  fine  in  its  way, 
it  really  was.  Her  pose,  her  imposture,  was  still  held 
sublimely:  he  was  still  to  think  she  knew  nothing  of  his 
faithlessness,  or  at  least,  that  she  did  not  care.  Vain  as 
he  was,  he  had  another  pang  of  questioning  whether  she 


308  THE  ACCOLADE 

did  care  really,  whether  her  attitude  towards  him  was  not 
simply  mocking  and  cynical.  It  would  have  been  so  in 
another  woman,  any  other, —  not  in  her.  She  was  capable 
of  nothing  so  obvious  and  so  direct  as  that. 

He  laughed,  when  she  had  left  the  log-house,  and 
remained  for  some  time,  his  head  in  his  hands.  Then  he 
said,  "  Lord,  she's  done  me,"  and  laughed  again.  To  be 
"  done,"  and  by  such  simple  means !  What  it  is  in  life  to 
have  to  do  with  fools, —  obstinate  fools.  Of  course  she 
had  not  begun  to  guess  what  he  had  gone  through,  was 
going  through  daily,  or  she  could  not,  in  mercy  —  Helena 
there!  The  sublime  cheek  of  the  conception, —  the 
glorious  idea !  There,  at  Routhwick :  after  knocking 
about  with  that  rough-haired  pair  on  the  hills,  sleeping  at 
inns,  eating  what  came,  to  take  her  in,  dry  her  feet,  look 
after  her 

Johnny,  immensely  hospitable,  like  all  his  family, 
looked  about  him  and  beyond  the  window.  Ursula  called 
Routhwick  an  ugly  place,  perhaps  it  was :  but  it  was  not 
comfortless  —  precisely.  He  could  see  that  she  was 
happy,  show  her  a  thing  or  two, —  some  things  Ursula  did 
not  know  of,  since  she  never  looked.  He  could  have  her 
here  in  the  log-house,  on  a  beastly  rainy  morning,  just  like 
this.  He  could  —  what  could  he  not  do,  having  herself, 
looking  in  her  sweet  eyes. 

Johnny  swore :  he  uttered  a  really  bad  word,  and  got  up. 
The  work  on  which  he  was  engaged  was  interesting,  but 
he  could  not  continue  to  attend  to  it;  Ursula's  intrusion 
had  disturbed  him  fatally,  even  in  the  Byronic  measure. 
He  rose  and  went  to  the  little  hearth,  where  his  wife  had 
stood,  turning  his  back  upon  his  mother's  picture, —  pon- 
dering if  the  strength  were  in  him  to  withstand  a  test  like 
this.  The  ancestor  whose  records  he  was  exploring  would 
not  have  withstood  it  for  a  moment, —  his  own  father 
would  hardly  have  withstood.  If  Ursula  stuck  to  her 
present  methods,  goading  him  every  day  till  the  choice 
was  offered  him,  he  would  not  answer  for  the  result.  As 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  309 

it  was,  in  the  daily  endeavor  to  exhaust  himself  physically 
and  resist  all  teasing  thought,  thought  returned  in  a  rush 
at  times  like  this,  changing  all  things  in  life  into  one  fierce 
desire,  reckless,  regardless, —  the  desire  to  assert  himself, 
his  lordship  of  life,  at  anybody's  expense.  Why  not?  — 
he  was  no  better  than  his  ancestors,  really:  nothing  pre- 
vented it  but  a  few  catchwords  of  the  day, —  and  even  so, 
his  day  had  other  catchwords.  If  he  could  forget  his  gen- 
eration, forget  his  social  responsibilities,  his  duty  to  the 
future,  his  obligation  from  the  past,  all  the  subtly  instilled 
truths  of  his  mother's  teaching,  for  one  instant,  for  one 
single  blissful  hour,  would  not  the  sacrifice  of  all  the  past, 
all  the  future,  of  life  itself — of  honor  itself  —  be  worth 
it?  He  shrewdly  guessed  it  would.  He  was  not  de- 
ceived, at  least,  as  to  his  own  weaknesses.  He  could  fore- 
cast his  own  penance  accurately.  But  hers 

"  MY  DARLING  "  wrote  Mrs.  Falkland, 

"  Father  seems  quite  all  right,  so  don't  worry  about 
him,  if  you  are  really  enjoying  yourselves,  though  I  am 
sorry  you  get  so  much  rain.  But  I  am  distressed  to  hear 
the  boys  are  so  inconsiderate,  dragging  you  up  at  those 
hours,  and  then  giving  you  no  proper  meals  all  day.  Will 
you  tell  Harold  from  me  that  if  he  cannot  regard  poor 
Quentin,  who  certainly  needs  all  his  sleep,  I  insist  on  his 
regarding  you.  I  remember  too  well  the  appearance  you 
presented  in  Switzerland,  after  the  week  you  went  walk- 
ing with  Harold  alone.  And  if  serious  then,  it  is  simply 
fatal  now,  when  all  kinds  of  people  and  the  best  papers 
want  your  photographs.  Father  found  another  bit  about 
you  in  the  Chatterer  and  said  he  was  enclosing,  it  but  of 
course  did  not.  As  if  every  word  they  say  about  you,  my 
jewel,  does  not  matter,  but  of  course  he  is  mooning  over 
golf. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  accept  this,  really  very  kind, 
from  Mrs.  Ingestre  for  the  last  week-end.  I  was  at  my 
wits'  end  where  to  give  you  a  little  rest  and  comfort  and 


310  THE  ACCOLADE 

respectable  food,  not  to  say  society,  but  I  know  she  is  to  be 
trusted.  Quentin  knows  her  already  of  course,  which 
makes  it  easier,  and  Harold  ought  to  because  I  certainly 
introduced  him.  I  gather  from  Mrs.  Ingestre  that  Routh- 
wick  is  a  fine  place,  their  second  but  the  largest.  So  have 
your  habit  sent  up  and  your  white  silk  for  evenings, 
servants  and  people  —  I  must  have  you  look  nice. 

"  Don't  get  yourself  all  thin  and  burned  before  the 
autumn,  my  dearest,  will  you,  and  do  let  the  others  do 
those  dreadful  things  alone.  That  evening  walk  to  see 
the  sunset  sounded  so  nice  for  both  of  you,  but  as  for 
Striding  Edges  I  think  it  can  hardly  be  the  thing.  Love 
to  my  dear  boys. 

"  YOUR  OWN  MOTHER." 

"  What's  the  Mater  saying  now  ?  "  said  Harold,  when 
his  sister  received  the  above  letter  at  an  inn  at  Grasmere. 
Helena  had  remained  gazing  at  it  and  the  enclosure  it  held, 
a  little  longer  than  seemed  absolutely  necessary  in  the 
case. 

"  She  thinks  I  am  getting  burned,"  said  Helena,  return- 
ing to  her  duties  at  the  tea-tray. 

"  Ho,  ho !  "  said  Harold.  "  What  with,—  the  snow  ?  " 
During  the  first  week  of  the  walking-tour  they  had  had 
every  conceivable  weather  except  fine  weather,  which  had 
naturally  amused  them  very  much. 

"  And  she  thinks  we  are  doing  too  much,"  added 
Helena.  She  retained  the  letter,  though  Harold,  desirous 
of  further  diversion,  stretched  a  hand  for  it. 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ? "  he  said  contemptuously.  "  Now 
suppose  we  cut  the  sandwiches." 

Helena,  refusing  to  be  hurried  in  any  degree,  cut  them 
nicely,  and  they  went  out,  in  the  gently  falling  rain.  It 
was  such  sweet-smelling,  delicate,  insinuating  rain,  that 
nobody  could  possibly  complain  of  it,  and  it  looked  like 
clearing  later.  This  constituted  in  itself  a  distinct  im- 
provement on  the  day  before,  so  they  started  in  excellent 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  311 

spirits.  Helena,  having  combated  vigorously  for  her 
rights  in  being  allowed  to  carry  something,  and  having 
failed  completely  and  been  snubbed,  determined  aloud  that 
she  would  never  again  join  a  walking-party  where  "  they  " 
were  two  to  one.  On  the  contrary,  her  plan  was,  next 
time,  to  invite  a  nice  strong  girl  to  walk  with  her, — such 
as  the  elder  Miss  Weyburn,  for  instance, —  and  to  take 
Harold. 

Harold  retorted  that  he  had  no  objection,  but  why  the 
elder?  The  other  was 

"  To  carry  your  things,  dear,"  explained  Helena. 
"  Dorothy  is  not  so  strong." 

Harold  then  said,  rather  hastily,  that  he  thought  the 
plan  hard  on  Auberon. 

"  Quentin  shall  come  too,  if  he  likes,"  said  Helena,  re- 
lenting,—  and  ruining  her  position  by  relenting,  like  a  girl. 
For  the  die  was  cast,  and  since  her  confidential  exchange 
with  Mr.  Auberon,  on  the  subject  of  their  engagement  to 
one  another  in  the  columns  of  the  Post,  Mr.  Auberon  as 
such  had  ceased  to  exist.  Christian  names  all  round  were 
the  rule  of  that  expedition ;  dating  from  about  the  third 
hour  after  their  meeting  at  Keswick,  the  rule  had  to  be 
firmly  made. 

Later  on,  having  Harold  alone  for  a  short  period,  she 
showed  him  her  mother's  letter.  He  had,  of  course,  to  be 
shown  it,  and  it  was  better  during  first  discussion,  that 
Quentin  should  not  be  there.  Quentin  had  vanished  tem- 
porarily over  the  horizon,  to  discover  the  way,  with  the 
aid  of  his  own  special  map,  which  was  better  than  Falk- 
land's. Mr.  Falkland  and  his  sister  were  sitting  side  by 
side  under  a  wall, —  a  very  wet  wall,  with  draughty  gaps 
in  it, —  Mrs.  Falkland  would  have  died,  had  she  known. 
There  was  a  faint  gleam  of  sun, —  a  reflection  of  a  kind  of 
design,  on  the  sun's  part,  to  come  out,  if  possible,  for  their 
benefit  later  on, —  and  it  lit  up  a  few  of  Helena's  little 
gold-dust  wisps  of  hair,  which  the  wind  had  loosened  pre- 
viously. Her  eyes  were  on  the  point  of  her  stick,  in  the 


3i2  THE  ACCOLADE 

roadway, —  Harold's  fixed,  in  a  dreamy  rapture,  on  his 
boots.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  break  his  reverie  on  that  sub- 
ject, but  Helena  had  to  do  it.  She  had  been  making  up 
her  mind  to  it,  for  some  time  past.  So  she  handed  him, 
with  a  comment,  her  letter. 

Harold  looked  it  over  carelessly:  he  seldom  read  his 
mother's  letters  completely  through,  and  this  seemed  just 
in  her  usual  style. 

"  What  the  deuce "  he  said,  his  attention  riveted 

half-way. 

"  I  expect  we  had  better  go,"  said  Helena,  still  looking 
in  front  of  her.  "  It's  kind  of  her,  as  Mother  says." 

Harold,  having  glanced  at  her  rather  anxiously,  re-read 
Ursula's  note  with  care.  There  was  a  leisured  languor 
about  that  note,  together  with  a  point-device  propriety, 
which  made  the  civility  seem  particularly  deliberate. 
Mrs.  Ingestre  was  not  being  obliged  to  ask  them, —  it  was 
her  own  idea. 

Well  then, —  he  could  not  be  there,  thought  Harold. 
There  was  no  mention  of  him.  He  had  gone  fooling  off 
somewhere  on  his  own,  sporting  probably,  since  he  was 
that  kind  of  chap.  But  in  that  case,  why  did  Helena  look 
so  —  well  —  and  why  on  earth  should  she  want  to  go  ? 

"I  don't  understand  it,"  he  said,  briefly.  "Why 
should  we  go  ?  What  can  she  want  with  the  gang  of  us  ? 
There  isn't  one  of  us  she  really  knows.  Besides  — " 

"  Perhaps  she  wants  Quentin,"  said  Helena.  Her  fair 
brow  was  strained  a  little  as  she  watched  her  stick.  She 
did  so  hate  deceiving  Harold, —  hated  it!  Why  should 
fate  be  so  hard? 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  for  a  minute  Auberon  wants  to 
go,"  said  Harold.  "  No  more  do  I  much,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  You  think  I'd  better  refuse,  then  ?  "  There  was  the 
same  alarming  languor  in  her  manner  that  he  remembered 
that  night  at  the  ball,  an  expression  as  of  one  entranced 
or  mesmerized  by  something, —  distant  music,  or  memory. 
In  his  active  sister, —  in  surroundings  such  as  these  —  it 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  313 

was  terrible.  It  reinforced  his  suspicion,  too,  that  she 
knew  the  fellow  to  be  there.  The  question  was  on  his 
lips,  but  he  could  not  ask  it.  Her  dreamy  dignity  held 
him  up. 

"  I  think  you'd  better  refuse,"  he  assented  gravely  after 
a  pause. 

"  Wouldn't  you  come  with  me,  if  I  wanted  you  ?  "  For 
one  terrible  minute,  he  thought  she  was  going  to  cry. 
And  she  turned  her  eyes  to  his,  beseeching, —  it  was  not  to 
be  borne. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  want,  I  will,"  he  said  hastily. 
"  Just  as  you  think  best.  We  needn't  bother  Auberon  to 
go,  that's  all.  It's  only  a  night  she  asks  us,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Two  nights,"  said  Helena. 

"  Good,"  said  Harold. 

He  did  not  mean  it  was  good,  of  course, —  far  from  it ; 
but  he  was  toiling  inwardly,  and  coming  by  degrees  to  a 
bold  resolution.  Could  a  consultation,  a  comparison  of 
impressions,  on  such  a  tricky  question  as  this,  by  any 
means  be  arranged  with  Auberon  ?  Harold  consulted  him 
about  nearly  all  other  problems  in  life.  It  was  distinctly 
difficult,  but  it  presented  a  gleam  of  possible  future  light 
in  Harold's  gloom, —  about  as  much  as  the  sun  was  offer- 
ing to  light  their  day.  With  luck,  and  care,  it  might  be 
done. 

Harold  and  Quentin  left  Helena  on  the  first  or  inferior 
peak  to  enjoy  the  view,  piled  all  their  food,  maps,  and 
encumbrances,  and  most  of  their  clothing,  round  her,  and 
climbed  the  second  or  superior  peak  alone.  Going  up,  no 
man  could  talk,  owing  to  nature's  limitations.  On  the 
top,  no  man  could  talk,  confidences  anyhow,  because  of  the 
wind.  The  confidences  would  have  been  carried  into  sev- 
eral counties.  Besides,  as  usual  on  the  tops  of  things,  there 
was  another  person  there,  of  a  kind  no  one  ever  wants  to 
meet  anywhere,  in  a  checked  cap.  Coming  down,  how- 
ever, by  a  zigzag  path  that  took  things  easy  among  rough 


314  THE  ACCOLADE 

gorse  and  fern,  on  the  side  remote  from  Helena  and  her 
lady's  peak,  and  with  nothing  but  a  black- faced  sheep,  at 
times,  to  overhear, —  which  inquisitiveness  Harold  dis- 
couraged with  small  stones, —  he  put  the  Ingestre  invita- 
tion before  Auberon,  just  by  way  of  preliminary,  to  get 
his  general  ideas. 

Auberon's  general  idea  was  that  he  had  to  be  back  in 
town  that  Saturday  night,  and  couldn't,  thanks.  He  did 
not  even  say  he  was  sorry, —  perhaps  he  was  not.  He 
did  not  chop  courtesies  with  Harold. 

Harold  looked  bothered,  said,  "  dash,  then  they  had 
better  refuse." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Quentin.     No  more. 

But  there  you  were, —  Harold  told  him.  He  hoped  he 
was  not  betraying  his  sister's  confidence  in  so  doing, —  but 
then,  Helena  had  never  confided  in  him,  if  you  came  to 
that.  And  really,  if  any  man  in  the  world  was  safe  —  He 
told  him  the  whole  thing  rapidly  and  curtly,  with  infinite 
relief,  for  he  had  told  no  one  freely  yet.  With  his  father, 
he  had  had,  all  the  same,  to  pick  and  choose,  or  the  good 
Captain  would  have  stumped  off  incontinently  to  call 
Ingestre  out.  With  Mrs.  Shovell,  Harold  had  not  spoken 
out,  because  the  temptation  to  imply  the  half,  in  her  com- 
pany, had  been  too  much  for  him.  Auberon,  of  course, 
by  one  means  and  another,  got  it  all,  not  only  implied,  but 
stated.  He  told  Harold  not  to  be  an  ass,  and  to  say  what 
he  meant,  several  times.  He  ejaculated  "  why,"  and 
"  what,"  and  such  simple  particles,  and  glanced  over  the 
three  or  four  counties  which  their  situation  dominated, 
with  his  steely  eyes.  Eagle's  eyes,  Helena  called  them; 
they  had  that  setting,  and  high,  imperial  look. 

When  Harold's  confession  was  complete,  he  said  noth- 
ing at  once  in  commentary,  and  Harold  had  a  qualm.  Of 
course  he  knew  his  prejudices.  Suppose  he  had  "  put 
him  off "  Helena  for  good !  That  would  be  frightful, 
really, —  he  had  not  thought  of  that. 

"  Of  course,  I  know  Mrs.  Ingestre's  all  right,  it's  not 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  315 

that,"  he  said  apologetically,  to  fill  the  gap.  He  had  never 
quite  been  able  to  gather  Auberon's  opinion  on  Mrs. 
Ingestre.  Quentin  had  interviewed  her,  or  made  use  of 
her  in  his  fashion,  several  times  on  different  subjects,  and 
called  on  her  politely  once  or  twice.  He  spoke  of  her  on 
the  business  side  with  approval :  but  Harold  had  an  idea, 
all  the  same,  there  was  something  in  her  he  disliked.  Her 
being  married,  possibly, —  that  would  be  quite  enough. 
Perhaps  merely  an  ancient  vestige  of  the  sentiment  that 
had  led  Quentin's  father  and  uncles  to  besiege  Ursula's 
father's  barn.  Blood-feuds,  it  is  true,  are  a  little  out  of 
date,  but  constitutional  antipathies  undoubtedly  remain ; 
and  the  Auberons  and  Thynnes  were  both  the  kind  of  fam- 
ily which  reproduces  a  type,  persistently,  through  the  ages. 

"And,  of  course,  the  invitation's  in  form,"  Harold  pro- 
ceeded, punctuating  his  remarks  with  stones,  at  sheep. 
"  And  Helena  wants  it  safe  enough,  but  there  you  are ! 
It's  such  a  weird  idea  of  the  woman  to  want  her,  if  he's 
there, —  and  weirder  still  for  the  girl  to  want  to  go,  if  he's 
not, —  and  the  chances  are  she  knows  his  movements, 
curse  him, —  and  the  Mater  of  course  is  blatantly  off  the 
whole  shoot, —  and  altogether  it's  a  bit  rocky,  to  my  ideas, 
and  I  wondered  if  you " 

"  I'd  let  her  go,"  said  Quentin.  "  Why  shouldn't  she? 
D'you  mean  you  don't  trust  her?" 

Harold  was  ashamed. 

Yes,  he  thought  a  lot  of  Helena,  not  a  doubt  of  it. 
How  he  got  there,  Harold  could  not  think,  for  they  never 
went  at  all  deep  in  their  daily  conversations.  They  talked 
largely  about  things  beneath  their  eyes,  as  people  do,  out 
walking,  and  about  the  morrow's  plans,  and  about  the 
weather, —  inevitable  and  fruitful  theme.  But  they  talked 
as  friends  talk,  who  are  sure  of  stable  foundations  to  the 
sympathy  which  expressed  itself  in  these  superficial  ways. 
It  was  true  Helena  was  an  unusually  sensible  girl ;  and 
though  it  was  she,  quite  often,  who  led  the  subject,  and 


316  THE  ACCOLADE 

though  they  had  plenty  of  common  friends,  it  is  probable 
that  the  discussions  of  the  trio  contained  less  mere  careless 
and  disparaging  gossip  than  that  of  any  other  chance 
grouping  of  young  London  people,  at  that  time  disporting 
themselves  upon  English  soil. 

Altogether,  as  time  went  on,  Harold  refused  to  be  dis- 
couraged, at  least  as  to  Auberon's  side.  He  only  took 
good  care  to  avoid  the  most  distant  pleasantry  as  to  their 
being  engaged  to  one  another, —  precious  good  care! 
There  was  no  point  in  it,  since  the  thing  was  obviously 
working  in  its  own  way.  Whoever  the  inspired  idiot  was 
who  had  forged  that  paragraph,  Harold  drank  to  him  si- 
lently, every  night.  He  had  done  excellent  molework, 
underground,  in  Harold's  cause.  It  would  never  have 
struck  him,  himself,  to  produce  a  match  in  just  that  way, 
but  with  a  queer  fellow  like  Auberon, —  really  queer  as 
regarded  girls  —  he  might  well  have  had  a  worse  idea. 
Quite  evidently  he  felt  responsible  from  that  moment,  for 
Helena, —  and  that  meant  so  much,  with  him.  He  had  to 
make  up  to  her  for  something, —  what,  Harold  could  not 
quite  see,  unless  it  was  for  owning  his  own  name.  He 
also  looked  at  her  a  little,  not  merely  towards  her.  And 
when  it  came  to  looking  at  Helena,  well  —  not  to  put  too 
fine  a  point  on  it,  Harold  backed  the  family. 

Besides,  how  could  Helena  watch  Auberon,  walk  by 
him,  talk  to  him  for  three  weeks,  day  after  day,  and  not 
realize  that  was  how  a  man  should  be?  He  would  be  a 
connection  to  be  proud  of, —  to  eclipse  Thomas  utterly, 
once  for  all;  and  Harold  hoped  his  sister  Con  would  be 
driven,  in  the  happy  event  of  Helena's  real  engagement, 
to  recognize  her  own  fatal  mistake.  That  is  to  say,  he 
greatly  feared  she  must  do  so.  He  had  already,  before 
the  three  weeks  were  up,  committed  himself  to  telling  Con, 
in  a  letter,  that  that  amazing  bit  of  impudence  in  the  Post, 
that  had  made  the  governor  so  rabid,  was  not,  in  Harold's 
opinion,  so  far  ahead  of  actual  truth.  What  always  struck 
Harold  most  in  Auberon  was  (he  added  to  Con)  his  first- 


THE  SELF-DECEIVER  317 

rateness,  the  kind  of  thing  that  seasons  a  man  and  makes 
him  last.  His  eyesight  (Harold's  brother-in-law,  it  will 
be  remembered,  wore  eye-glasses)  was  remarkable,  he 
spotted  the  most  remote  objects  from  the  mountain-tops, 
and  his  geography  was  never  out.  As  to  his  future,  the 
C.B.  was,  of  course,  speculation,  but  the  betting  was  on  it, 
in  the  next  ten  years.  At  least,  he  would  never  be  one  of 
your  arm-chair  philosophers,  and  his  present  form  was 
tremendous.  There  was,  indeed,  but  a  single  point  in 
which  he  could  be  said  to  be  inferior  to  Harold's  self, — 
his  boots.  .  .  .  As  for  Helena's,  they  were  rotten. 


PART  V 


STRETTO 


"  WHAT  does  '  stretto '  mean,  John  ?  "  said  Ursula,  one 
evening. 

He  was  lying  in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  in  his  favorite 
attitude,  full-length,  hands  locked  across  his  eyes,  and  she 
was  sitting  at  the  piano.  His  attitude  was  one  of  atten- 
tion, but  Ursula  was  fairly  well-convinced  that  he  was  not 
attending  to  her.  He  did  not  attend  when  she  practised, 
commonly ;  and  if  her  studies  had  caused  him  any  annoy- 
ance, he  would  most  certainly  have  said  so.  At  least,  one 
knew  where  one  was,  with  such  as  John.  Ursula  was  a 
good  worker  by  nature,  systematic  and  conscientious,  and 
though  she  might  toil  among  things  she  did  not  fully  un- 
derstand, she  toiled  well,  in  a  spirit  of  willing  servitude 
to  a  god  she  recognized.  Possibly  this  was  why,  even 
though  she  should  repeat  a  passage  twenty  times,  Johnny 
bore  the  noise  she  made  uncomplaining :  and  was  able,  at 
need,  to  abstract  his  thoughts  completely. 

He  seemed  to  have  done  so  now,  for  he  answered 
absently  — 

"  Stretto's  the  Italian  for  strict." 

"  Strict  ?    That  won't  do."     She  seemed  puzzled. 

"  In  the  sense  of  close, —  the  opposite  of  slack.  Con — 
stricted."  He  turned,  moved  his  hands,  and  took  in  her 
attitude,  frowning  at  the  page  before  her.  "  Oh,  music, 
is  it?  "  he  said. 

"  It's  the  end  of  a  fugue,"  said  Ursula. 

"  How  many  characters  in  the  fugue  ?  —  parts,  I  should 
say.  Is  it  a  four-part  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so."     She  examined  it.     "  Yes." 

"  Well  then,  it  means  that  all  four  characters  appear 


322  THE  ACCOLADE 

together  on  the  scene  at  rather  closer  quarters  than  they 
did  at  the  start.  Whereupon,  naturally,  the  fun  begins. 
Just  as  it  does  in  the  last  act  of  a  good  comedy  or  novel. 
See?" 

"  I  see,"  said  Ursula,  "  more  or  less." 

"  It's  a  decent  composer's  opportunity,"  said  Johnny. 
"  Ripping,  it  must  be,  chivying  'em  into  line." 

"Why  don't  you  write  fugues,  if  it's  so  amusing?" 
said  Ursula. 

"  Because  I  can't,"  said  Johnny  simply.  "  Anything 
more  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  you  can  go  to  sleep  again.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  a  fugue  was  like  a  novel." 

"  Didn't  it  ?  "  said  Johnny,  surprised.  "  Oh,  then,  per- 
haps it  isn't,  and  I'm  wrong.  I  was  only  trying  to  give 
you  an  idea." 

"Oh,  I've  got  the  idea,  thanks."  She  began  to  play 
again.  "  A  fugue's  a  good  deal  —  tidier  than  life,"  she 
said  through  the  music  indistinctly.  "  And  novels  are 
meant  to  be  life-like, —  that's  all." 

"  A  fugue  is  tidiness  itself,"  said  Johnny  earnestly. 
"  Blessed  order  —  management  —  peace.  Violet  once  said 
it's  like  a  well-spent  day." 

"  Did  she  ? "  Mrs.  Ingestre  turned.  "  I  say,  that's 
rather  good." 

"  Think  so  ?  "  said  Johnny.  "  I  said  it  was  like  the  way 
you  spent  a  day,  not  like  the  way  that  we  did." 

"  You  and  she?  Dear  me,  how  clever  of  you.  I  hope 
she  was  flattered." 

"  She  was,  awfully,"  said  Johnny.  "  At  being  classed 
with  me.  I  don't  suppose  she's  got  over  it  yet,  if  you 
asked  her." 

"  I  don't  propose  to,"  said  Ursula.  Seeming  to  tire  of 
the  fugue  of  a  sudden,  she  got  out  another  music-book 
from  the  shelf  above  her  head,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ingestre 
resumed  their  avocations. 

Much  later  in  the  evening,  when  John  appeared  to  be 


STRETTO  323 

really  asleep,  not  pretending,  beneath  his  hands,  and 
Ursula  had  given  up  the  piano,  and  recurred  to  her  crochet 
in  the  sofa-corner,  out  of  regard  for  him,  a  servant  came 
into  the  room.  The  Routhwick  servants  were  a  stage 
lower  than  the  Hall  servants,  in  not  being  so  sure  of  their 
appropriate  demeanor  at  all  contingencies  of  life.  This 
one,  having  hesitated  and  glanced  at  his  master  a  moment, 
crossed  and  spoke  to  Ursula  privately. 

"  How  very  extraordinary !  "  Mrs.  Ingestre  exclaimed, 
rising.  Then,  as  her  husband  started  awake, — "  John, 
it's  that  girl." 

"  What  girl  ? "  said  Johnny  crossly.  He  did  not  like 
being  roused  at  all. 

"  Why,  that  girl  who  acted  for  you, —  what  was  it  ?  — 
Celia.  The  one  I  sent  to  Miss  Darcy,  and  Mr.  Auberon 
knew  about.  You  can't  have  forgotten,"  she  added 
sharply,  "  so  don't  pretend  to.  She  acted  rather  well." 

Johnny  had  the  appearance  of  having  forgotten  because 
he  was  gazing  at  Ursula  blankly,  his  dark  eyes  rather 
distended.  He  looked  dazed. 

"  Stretto !  "  he  suddenly  ejaculated. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Ursula,  deeply  vexed  at 
such  behavior  before  the  servant. 

"  Who  did  she  ask  for  ?  "  said  johnny  sharply  to  the 
servant. 

"  You,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "  But  seeing  you  were 
asleep " 

Ursula  frowned.  "  I'll  go,"  she  said  quietly,  and  was 
moving. 

"  Indeed  you  won't,"  jerked  Johnny,  "  if  she  asked  for 
me."  The  servant  stood  looking  in  front  of  him  at  noth- 
ing, as  seemed  to  him  best.  The  situation  admitted  mis- 
understanding, to  say  the  least.  Yet  there  was  no  doubt 
whatever  that  the  girl,  looking  like  a  foreign  actress, 
limping  to  the  side-door  of  Routhwick,  had  asked  for  his 
master,  and  he  could  but  tell  the  truth.  To  his  surprise, 
Mrs.  Ingestre  showed  fight  on  this  occasion. 


324  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  You  had  better  let  me  go,  John,"  she  said  quietly, 
flushing  as  she  spoke.  "  It's  my  business,  naturally, — 
bound  to  be." 

"  Far  more  likely  mine,"  said  Johnny, —  simply  to 
exasperate  her,  she  was  sure.  How  could  he, —  and  be- 
fore the  man  ?  —  he  was  unbearable. 

"  Show  her  into  the  library,"  he  said  to  the  servant. 
"  I'll  come  directly.  And  —  I  say  —  take  her  some  coffee 
in  there, —  she'll  be  cold." 

When  the  servant  had  gone,  there  was  a  silence,  both 
recollecting  themselves,  for  the  crisis  had  been  unex- 
pected, for  both.  Then  Johnny,  who  was  on  his  feet, 
turned,  and  actually  apologized. 

"  Sorry  I  took  the  wrong  line,"  he  observed.  "  I  was 
startled  rather  suddenly  awake.  I  had  not  thought  of 
the  thing  as  it  might  appear  to  the  domestics  —  let's  say, 
from  the  gallery.  I  hope  you  —  er  —  see  it  correctly 
from  the  stalls  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Ursula  dully.  Her 
flush  had  faded  to  utter  pallor,  and  she  looked  ill.  She 
had  had  another  momentary  blinding  shock  at  his  in- 
sistence,—  could  not  escape  it,  of  course.  That  girl  too, 
—  it  was  really  not  conceivable.  Yet  she  knew  how  often 
he  visited  Miss  Darcy,  especially  lately:  the  link,  had  he 
needed  it,  was  there. 

John  made  a  step  to  her,  and  took  her  wrist.  "  Look 
here,"  he  said,  rather  low,  "  Lord  knows  we're  at  cross 
purposes,  in  life,  sufficiently.  I  don't  mean  to  have  it 
about  this.  If  this  is  stretto,  let's  get  things  straight,  as 
strictly  straight  as  possible  .  .  .  Ursula."  He  made  her 
look  at  him,  by  the  simple  process  of  saying  her  name. 
It  was  long, —  ages,  it  seemed  to  her,  since  he  had  spoken 
it.  And  he  said  it  so  attractively,  so  unlike  all  other 
men, —  it  was  unlike  all  other  appellations  to  her,  in  that 
tone.  A  woman  remembers  the  lover's  tone,  in  her  own 
name,  infallibly, —  in  this  case,  most  cruel  memory. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  she  said,  striving  with  his  hand. 


STRETTO  325 

"  I  will  speak,  and  you  have  to  listen.  This  is  not 
melodrama,  on  my  honor, —  do  just  make  an  effort  and 
turn  your  mind  aside.  I  know  you  haven't  a  scrap  of 
faith  in  me,  and  you  may  be  right, —  we  won't  go  into 
that.  But  in  this  instance  you  are  wrong,  d'you  hear? 
There's  an  excellent  reason  why  the  young  person  should 
appear  from  the  void  like  this,  and  ask  for  me.  An- 
other reason, —  different, —  d'you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  faintly. 

"  Well,  next,  the  young  person's  line  of  life,  properly 
speaking,  is  the  same  as  mine :  and  odd  though  it  may 
seem,  I  take  those  people  seriously." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  she  nodded  dumbly  again. 

"  Well,  lastly,  old  Darcy  thinks  the  young  person  is 
head-over-ears  in  love  with  young  Auberon." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Ursula.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  brow. 
It  was  true,  she  had  heard  that, —  John  had  alluded  to  it 
when  he  got  the  letter  one  morning,  as  a  joke.  "  Oh, 
Miss  Darcy's  a  fuss,"  she  said.  "  I'd  not  take  her  word 
for  it." 

"  Well,  will  you  take  my  word  for  it  I'm  not  ?  "  said 
Johnny.  "  Nor's  she, —  I  doubt  if  she  likes  me  even.  I 
rather  think  she  despises  me, —  quite  right  too."  He 
waited.  "  There  are  precious  few  people  I'd  let  despise 
me,  but  she's  one.  I  don't  let  you, —  do  you  despise  me, 
Ursula?" 

He  had  no  right  to  do  it!  His  voice  ran  through  all 
its  chaffing,  charming  tones,  simply  to  get  her  forgive- 
ness for  having  hurt  her, —  because  she  had  openly  winced 
once, —  when  he  was  torturing  her  every  day. 

"  Is  that  all  right  ?  "  he  persisted,  as  though  he  really 
needed  reassurance. 

"  It  will  do,"  said  Ursula,  swallowing.  "  I  know  you 
can  always  —  persuade  people." 

"  That's  not  fair." 

"  Well,  you're  not  fair.  Let  go  of  me."  He  did  so 
and  put  his  hands  behind  him.  "  You  might  be  more 


326  THE  ACCOLADE 

careful  —  before  the  servants,"  said  Ursula,  gathering 
voice  and  dignity  again.  She  could  find  neither,  while 
his  touch  was  on  her  still. 

"  I  know, —  it  was  deuced  bad  management, —  my  fault. 
I  should  have  let  you  go  before  me.  You  were  in  the 
right  of  it.  Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  gasped  surrender.  When  he  had  gone,  she 
dropped  helplessly  back  into  her  place  on  the  sofa  again. 
She  felt  shaken  and  ill,  her  thoughts  unstable.  She 
thought  she  believed  him, —  in  this  instance, —  it  was  not 
that.  It  was  that  he  should  have  ventured,  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, to  touch  her,  hold  her,  speak  in  that  tone. 
Unfair, —  intolerable, —  always  where  she  least  expected 
him  to  be:  always  seizing  his  advantage  like  that  before 
she  could  seize  hers:  always  leaving  her  worsted,  ex- 
hausted, even  when  he  owned  that  she  was  right.  .  .  . 
She  hated  him, —  yes,  she  did.  She  had  to  hate, —  she 
had  no  other  earthly  security. 

She  sat  long,  as  it  seemed  to  her, —  transfixed,  gazing 
at  the  log-fire,  with  its  cheerful  irrelevant  spurting  of 
sky-blue  flame ;  unable  to  look  forward  or  back,  to  ques- 
tion her  sensations,  or  even  to  wonder  greatly.  She 
could  not  feel  curious  about  others'  remote  concerns, 
when  her  own  suffering  possessed  her.  Then  she  heard 
his  voice  again,  speaking  to  the  servant,  rating  him  ap- 
parently, anyhow  on  its  sharpest  note.  He  was  making 
a  commotion  as  usual,  where  none  was  needed.  She  sup- 
posed she  had  better  go,  and  arose  wearily. 

"  Idiocy,"  said  Johnny,  standing,  in  the  middle  of  the 
hall.  He  held  a  paper  in  his  hand.  "  Why  couldn't  you 
do  what  I  told  you  at  once?" 

"  Why,"  said  the  first  servant  to  the  second,  "  couldn't 
you  show  the  young  lady  to  the  library  at  once,  instead  of 
leaving  her  out  there  ?  " 

The  second  servant,  though  frightened,  was  a  female, 
consequently  no  young  ladies  for  her.  "  I  only  left  her 


STRETTO  327 

in  the  entry  a  minute,"  she  declared,  "  while  you  went 
through  to  Mr.  John.  She  was  in  such  a  state  with  the 
wet " —  here  she  perceived  her  mistress,  and  appealed 
with  confidence  beyond  — "  that  I  brought  her  no  farther 
than  the  flags,  which  I  washed  myself  this  morning. 
Then  she  gave  me  the  parcel  for  Master,  and  I  put  it 
on  the  hall-table  there,  thinking  it  best.  When  I  went 
back,  she  was  gone." 

"  Gone  ?  "  said  Ursula. 

"  No  sign  of  her,"  said  the  kitchen-maid  positively. 

"  Go  after  her,"  said  Johnny  to  the  man.  "  Tell 
Blandy  to  go  with  you,  and  take  a  lantern,  and  look  sharp. 
I've  got  to  see  her  here,  and  no  delay.  And  you  " —  to 
the  girl  — "  cut  along  and  tell  them  I  want  Rachel,  quick 
—  don't  stop  chattering, —  I'll  come  to  the  stable.  .  .  . 
Gosh,  what  a  mess ! "  he  added,  turning  at  last  to  his 
wife,  with  all  his  father's  bitterness.  "  You'd  have 
thought  they  had  a  spark  of  sense  among  them,  anyhow 
up  here.  I  allow  the  idiots  at  the  Hall  to  maunder  about, 
since  that's  what  they  think  they're  paid  for.  No  far- 
ther than  the  flags, —  washed  this  morning!  —  a  girl 
who'd  walked  in  this  weather  from  Kettley  Mill !  " 

"  Kettley  ?  She  couldn't,"  said  Ursula  promptly. 
"  She's  lame." 

"  Lame  or  no,  she's  done  it.  She's  come  from  Lon- 
don,—  no  other  way  from  the  line."  He  was  in  a  flame 
of  temper  or  agitation,  she  could  not  be  certain  which. 
"  Where  are  my  boots  ?  "  he  said,  pushing  roughly  past 
her. 

"  Gone  to  be  dried,  probably.  John,  you're  never  going 
out  again  ?  What's  the  use  ?  She  couldn't  get  far, —  the 
men  will  find  her.  What  can  be  the  fuss  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  except  I  don't  like  it,"  said  Johnny,  his  back 
turned  as  he  reached  down  his  riding-coat,  already 
drenched  through  twice  that  day.  Putting  it  on,  he 
seemed  to  make  an  effort  for  self-control.  "  Better  get 
in,  Ursula, —  I'll  explain  later.  Here,  you  can  take  this." 


328  THE  ACCOLADE 

He  put  a  packet  that  lay  on  the  hall-table  into  her  hand. 
"  It's  wet,"  he  observed.  "  Look  after  it,  you'll  soon  see 
why.  And  keep  a  fire  in  the  library,  will  you  ? "  he 
called  over  his  shoulder.  "  Drinks  and  so  on, —  we  might 
be  late." 

Two  minutes  later  she  heard  the  trampling  of  the 
horses  behind  the  house,  on  the  stones  of  the  stable-yard, 
and  saw  the  flash  of  lanterns  through  the  back  window  in 
the  hall.  He  meant  it  actually, —  he  was  going  out  on 
the  moor-roads,  in  the  driving  rain,  to  look  for  that  lame 
girl  in  person,  when  he  had  been  riding  all  day. 

She  sat  down  once  more  in  her  place  by  the  fire,  too 
dazed  to  be  resentful  even,  quite  perplexed.  Why  should 
he  be  so  excited,  when  he  asserted,  in  a  manner  she  had 
had  to  credit,  the  girl  was  nothing  to  him  ?  He  was  really 
strange,  Johnny, —  in  later  years  he  might  become  eccen- 
tric, if  he  continued  to  give  rein  to  all  his  impulses  like 
this. 

After  a  pause,  she  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for  the 
kitchen-maid  to  be  sent  her  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
scene  in  the  hall ;  and  while  she  waited,  she  released  the 
packet  John  had  given  her  from  its  wet  string  and  dam- 
aged wrappings. 

Wonder  overcame  her  anew  when  she  found  the  Hope 
miniature  within  it.  Wonders  accumulated  steadily. 
Ursula  had  seen  it  once  or  twice  before,  though  she  had 
never  taken  much  interest  in  her  father-in-law's  antiques. 
That  was  an  absorption  of  Johnny's  in  which  she  had 
never  pretended  to  share.  It  was  a  pretty  thing,  though, 
the  pearls  were  good.  She  turned  it  round  and  over, 
and  finally  looked  at  the  painting. 

The  little  pink-robed  Marechale  smiled  at  her  across 
one  shoulder,  a  mystical,  mischievous  smile.  Like  Vio- 
let, John  had  asserted,  she  remembered,  which  was  partly 
why  she  had  not  cared  to  study  it  too  frequently.  She 
saw  no  resemblance,  it  was  his  fancy.  Violet  wore  that 


STRETTO  329 

color  occasionally,  but  she  did  her  hair  quite  differently, 
and  had  —  to  say  the  least  of  it  —  less  laxity  in  fastening 
up  her  clothes.  The  ease  of  the  Restoration  did  not  ap- 
peal to  Ursula.  The  Marechale  had  been  a  bad  woman, 
anyhow,  of  that  she  was  convinced.  She  had  left  her  hus- 
band, all  sorts  of  awful  things.  She  had  not  been  a  pretty 
woman  either,  really:  there  was  another  portrait  of  her 
in  the  Hall  collection,  in  which  she  appeared  quite  plain. 
As  for  this, —  the  little  white  shoulder  and  neck  were 
pretty,  but  flattered,  of  course.  The  delicate  miniature 
style  is  flattering  always.  And  even  here  she  was  sharp- 
featured,  straight-browed, —  a  minx. 

One  of  the  Ingestres, —  the  one  John  was  writing  about, 
Ursula  had  happened  to  discover, —  had  been  devoted 
to  her,  written  her  letters  and  verses,  and  a  journal  intime, 
and  generally  done  his  best  to  blacken  her  memory.  He 
had  also  fought  duels  for  her, —  killed  several  people  in 
cold  blood, —  as  John  would  doubtless  have  done  for  Vio- 
let, had  he  seen  a  favorable  opportunity.  Not  for  Ursula, 
of  course.  None  of  them  had  ever  been  known  to  do  it 
yet  for  the  woman  who  belonged  to  them.  So  Ursula 
reflected  in  the  bitterness  of  her  spirit:  charging  him  as 
usual  with  that  passion  for  romantic  incident  and  artifice 
which  was  really  hers, —  since  her  colorless  spirit  thirsted 
for  such  adornment,  and  his  could  constantly  supply  its 
own. 

"  Oh, —  Hannah,"  said  Ursula,  as  the  door  opened  to 
the  aproned  kitchen-maid.  "  I  just  want  to  know  about 
this.  You  let  the  girl  in,  didn't  you?  She  came  round 
to  the  side  door?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  girl,  feeling  her  apron.  She 
seemed,  for  all  her  plain  and  stolid  appearance,  to  have 
been  weeping  in  the  interval. 

"  How  was  it  ?  Don't  be  frightened.  Did  she  change 
her  mind  about  coming  in  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am :  she  said  from  the  first  she  would  stop 


330  THE  ACCOLADE 

where  she  was  outside.  If  I'd  thought  Master  would 

want  to  see  her  special "  (We  translate  Hannah, — 

her  accent  being  well  beyond  any  pen.) 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  But  you  might 
have  brought  her  in  out  of  the  cold, —  she  is  delicate." 
She  waited  for  this  to  sink  in.  "  Then  it  was  about  wait- 
ing she  changed  her  mind  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  :  took  fright  of  a  sudden  you'd  say " 

"  Did  you  say  anything  to  frighten  her,  any  of  you  ?  " 

The  girl  twisted  her  apron  again;  the  truth  was  in 
Hannah,  but  she  found  it  hard  to  express.  "  Kate  said 
she  looked  like  a  gypsy,"  she  burst  out.  "  I  think  that's 
all.  I'd  have  said  tramp  myself,  she  was  so  muddied." 

"Did  she  say  herself  she  had  walked  from  Kettley? 
How  did  your  master  hear  that  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  hear  her  say  so,  ma'am,  but  she  looked  it  and 
more.  Perhaps  it  was  in  the  note  that  Master  had," 
Hannah  added  after  a  moment. 

"  Ah,  she  gave  you  a  note  as  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  all  tied  up,  the  note  and  the  two  packets. 
I  left  them  for  Mr.  John  in  the  hall." 

Ursula  corrected  the  title  mechanically;  she  did  not 
like  the  younger  servants  using  it,  whatever  the  men 
might  do.  She  would  not  be  Mrs.  John  herself,  either, 
—  it  sounded  so  middle-class.  She  was  extremely  par- 
ticular about  such  details,  always,  however  distressed  or 
distracted  she  might  be. 

"  Two  packets,"  she  said.  "  Then  there  was  another 
packet  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  books  or  something.  There's  the  note 
still,  ma'am,  in  the  hall,"  ventured  Hannah  after  a  pause. 
"  It's  crumpled  a  little, —  Master  threw  it  down."  - 

"  How  like  him,"  thought  Ursula.  She  had  no  doubt 
Hannah  had  read  the  crumpled  note  in  crossing  the  hall, 
but  she  remained  calm.  "  You  can  bring  it,"  she  said, 
"  and  then  make  up  the  library  fire.  That's  all."  She 
was  still  curious  about  the  other  packet,  but  had  de- 


STRETTO  331 

meaned  herself,  in  her  judgment,  enough.  She  gave  her 
orders,  easily  and  firmly,  to  Hannah,  and  took  the  note 
from  her  with  indifference. 

The  chances  were,  of  course,  that  all  the  kitchen  were 
discussing  her  and  him,  and  the  little  third  party  whose 
dramatic  entrance  and  exit  had  been  quite  in  John's 
favorite  style.  Added  to  that,  his  own  uncontrolled  be- 
havior had  been  enough  to  spur  gossip,  especially  in 
such  benighted  parts  as  theirs.  Ursula  had  little  faith  in 
the  outer  respectability  of  these  Yorkshire  people,  their 
cumbrous  honesty  and  impassive  devotion.  She  observed 
they  liked  her  husband,  people  always  did :  —  Hannah 
had  been  crying  because  he  said  three  cross  words  to  her 
probably.  But  that  such  feeling  would  deter  them  from 
ill-natured  jibing  at  his  expense,  or  at  hers,  she  did  not 
suppose,  for  a  moment. 

Consequently,  she  had  a  pang  of  relief  to  find  the  note 
Hannah  handed  her  was  in  French :  —  that  at  least  would 
be  beyond  them. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  note,  in  a  fine  foreign  hand.  "  Here  is 
your  picture.  Will  you  give  this  to  Mr.  Auberon.  Your 
faithful  servant." 

That  was  all, —  no  name. 

Well  then,  why  had  John  been  so  frightened?  That 
was  simple  enough.  Looking  back,  she  saw  his  behavior 
now  as  anxiety,  or  apprehension.  The  note  was  sober 
and  straightforward,  and  respectfully  expressed:  even  a 
prying  menial  could  have  found  nothing  in  it.  Had  there 
been  another  note  for  Mr.  Auberon  which  he  had  also 
read  ?  A  book,  the  girl  said :  a  small  book  too,  since  John 
had  pocketed  it.  Ursula  now  remembered  having  seen 
him  put  something  away. 

And  why  Mr.  Auberon?  Why  his  name  so  intro- 
duced? There  was  new  food  for  speculation  in  that. 
She  remembered  Miss  Darcy's  report,  which  John  re- 


332  THE  ACCOLADE 

peated  lately.  Could  there  be  anything  really  in  it? 
Could  a  child  of  that  age  be  really  in  love  with  him?  Of 
course,  Ursula  was  ready  to  admit  his  attraction.  What 
if  he  should  return  the  feeling?  The  girl  was  a  gypsy, 
as  the  cook  said, —  a  little  witch.  What  in  that  case  be- 
came of  the  scheme  for  attaching  him  to  Helena  ?  —  But 
Ursula  could  not  believe  it;  he  was  not  at  all  that  sort 
of  man.  It  was  John's  nonsense,  and  Miss  Darcy's  ever- 
lasting fussing,  no  more. 

Out  of  sheer  curiosity,  for  she  was  very  tired,  she  re- 
mained up  till  midnight.  She  heard  the  rain  not  falling, 
but  thundering  down, —  raining  as  it  can  only  rain  in  our 
beloved  island's  mountain  districts, —  splashing  on  the 
drenched  court  and  strong  stone-work  of  the  house.  It 
had  been  so  raining,  more  or  less,  for  forty-eight  hours: 
awful  weather,  as  even  the  natives  said.  The  Mule,  their 
neighboring  river,  was  raging  high,  threatened  such  floods 
as  were  remembered  in  John's  childhood,  five-and-twenty 
years  ago.  The  old  bridge  at  Kettley,  the  nearest  cross- 
ing to  Routhwick,  was  in  danger,  and  would  doubtfully 
stand  the  strain  of  the  volume  of  mountain  water  that 
shouldered  and  surged  past,  overpowering  the  huge  lime- 
stone blocks  that  paved  its  course  the  length  of  the  dale. 
Ursula  had  that  day  heard  her  servants  discussing  it,  in 
the  dialect  she  hated, —  which  John  loved,  and  could  imi- 
tate, at  need,  superbly  well.  He  often  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  talk  to  them.  She  had  found  him  there  that 
very  morning,  sitting  on  the  table,  drying  his  wet  clothes 
by  a  splendid  fire,  and  while  he  attended  to  the  cook's 
discourse,  breaking  bits  to  nibble  off  the  great  curling 
sheets  of  oatcake  she  had  suspended  from  the  beam. 
Conversation  was  curtailed  when  "  the  mistress  "  entered, 
naturally;  but  she  had  heard  that  fact  about  the  bridge, 
and  about  the  bad  floods  further  down  the  valley  where 
it  opened  out  towards  the  town. 

However,  rain  or  no,  none  of  the  men  came  back  to  the 
house  before  one  o'clock,  though  once  she  heard  barking, 


STRETTO  333 

and  speculated  whether  they  had  returned  to  let  loose  the 
dogs.  That  was  dangerous, —  the  dogs  were  fierce, —  un- 
less John  himself  were  there.  He  could  manage  them, 
naturally,  as  Ursula  could  herself,  at  need.  He  and  she 
were  dog-lovers,  and  had  trained  many  in  partnership. 
But  it  was  hopeless  their  following  scent  in  this  rain,  she 
wondered  it  should  be  attempted,  but  that  Johnny  rated 
his  dogs'  intellect  above  their  patient  noses.  He  was 
clever  as  a  dog  himself,  resourceful,  prompt,  no  means 
would  escape  him,  so  far  as  any  means  were  available 
in  the  rain-sodden,  pitch-black  night. 

Ursula  grew  bored,  extremely.  Prompt  for  practical 
means  herself,  she  was  not  rich  in  mental  commentary  or 
imagination.  She  tried  to  comment  on  her  husband's 
proceeding,  but  comment  in  every  direction  was  blocked. 
The  rules  by  which  he  lived,  if  he  had  rules,  were  dark  to 
her:  the  things  that  bulked  important,  or  stirred  him  to 
the  quick,  were  never  hers.  There  were  but  two  lines  of 
explanation  of  his  present  conduct  open,  really,  if  he  were 
not  urged  by  a  shameful  interest  in  the  girl:  the  everlast- 
ing obligation  of  justice,  and  the  universal  service  owed 
to  youth.  Of  the  former  Ursula  had  at  present  no 
inkling,  the  second  she  would  not  face ;  only,  as  time  went 
on,  her  hand  pushed  the  miniature,  little  by  little,  away 
from  her, —  why  ?  She  saw  no  likeness  there  to  her  first 
little  rival :  and  never  for  a  moment  —  not  for  more  than 
a  moment  —  did  those  scenes  before  her  marriage,  when 
the  beautiful  enigma  of  childhood  first  struck  him,  in  her 
despite,  come  up.  Why  in  any  case  should  she  be  trou- 
bled by  flashes  of  his  face  in  youth  to-night?  He  was 
hers  no  longer:  dead,  or  else  she  was.  She  was  frozen, 
she  greatly  preferred  to  be. 

He  reminded  her  of  it  himself  anew,  when  he  at  last 
came  in,  dripping,  and  would  do  nothing  but  stand  by  the 
dark  window  of  the  library,  watching,  as  though  he  still 
longed  to  be  out. 

"  She's  a  kid,"  said  Johnny,  in  answer  to  all  his  wife's 


334  THE  ACCOLADE 

arguments  and  representations.  It  was  long  before  she 
could  make  him  leave  the  window,  the  relentless  roar  of 
the  rain,  and  come  near,  or  at  least  nearer,  to  the  warmth 
and  comfort  she  had  prepared. 

After  a  time  he  told  her  a  little  of  what  they  had  been 
doing,  not  much ;  it  was  not  interesting,  being  nothing 
but  search  and  enquiry,  totally  unrepaid ;  and  he  told  her, 
when  more  closely  pressed,  some  history, —  the  history 
of  the  Marechale  portrait.  He  told  it  in  his  manner, 
which  was  not  Quentin's;  for,  in  the  intervals  of  his 
inquisitions  and  explorations,  during  those  dark  hours 
past,  he  had  been  coming,  by  quick  intuitive  stages,  to 
quite  a  different  conclusion. 

"  The  thing's  been  sold,  you  see,"  said  Johnny,  "  and 
for  a  song." 

Ursula  did  not  see  it,  so  he  had  to  explain  to  her,  while 
he  dried.  He  showed  her  what  she  had  altogether  failed 
to  notice,  a  small  label  hanging  to  the  miniature  ring. 
The  sum  of  five  pounds  was  clearly  marked  on  the  label. 

"You  mean  it  was  sold  for  five  pounds?"  ejaculated 
Ursula. 

"  No,  for  less :  two  or  three,  probably.  Five  was  the 
sum  for  which  she  bought  it  back." 

"She  bought  it?     She  couldn't, —  she's  no  money." 

"  Well,  made  him,"  said  Johnny.  "  It's  all  the  same." 
As  Ursula  stared,  he  went  on,  in  a  manner  of  certainty 
which  amazed  her.  "  The  man  got  hold  of  it, —  her  fa- 
ther,—  by  some  means,  I  shall  see  what  presently,  if  I 
can't  guess  first;  and  sold  it,  of  course, —  luckily  to  a  fool 
who  didn't  know  its  value,  or  we'd  have  been  done,  for 
good ;  and  the  girl  never  even  learnt  of  the  loss  till  Au- 
beron  was  suddenly  down  on  her.  ...  I  don't  blame 
Auberon,  mind,  I  put  him  up  to  it, —  thought  myself  jolly 
clever  too, —  I'd  have  sworn  she  was  the  thief.  .  .  .  But 
I  used  him,  see  ?  —  being  rushed  in  London :  and  he  used 
his  methods,  which  are  probably  —  er  —  less  elastic  than 
mine,  see?  —  and  it  never  struck  me  that  we  might  both 


STRETTO  335 

be  wrong,  and  if  so,  guilty  of  rank  brutality, —  the  rank- 
est on  the  list."  As  Ursula  had  no  comment  or  question, 
he  added  pensively,  leaning  back  against  the  tall  chimney- 
piece, — "  Because  she  was  in  love  with  him  all  the  time." 

"  That's  only  Miss  Darcy's  idea "  began  Ursula. 

"  It  isn't,  it's  mine,"  snapped  Johnny.  "  You've  got  to 
believe  it.  Nothing  else  explains  the  case." 

"  The  note,  you  mean  ?  I  read  the  note,"  mentioned 
Ursula. 

"  Hang  the  note !  Nothing  else  explains  the  whole 
position.  It  simply  won't  bear  any  other  interpretation. 
D'you  hear?" 

"  I  hear.  Don't  be  so  cross,  John.  Why  don't  you  go 
to  bed,  if  you're  tired?  " 

"  I  can't." 

His  eyes  moved  to  the  window,  furtively  as  it  were. 
He  had  turned  his  shoulder  to  her,  but  his  fingers  were 
snapping  unconsciously,  hanging  at  his  side.  Every  inch 
of  him  was  impatience  baffled,  energy  foiled.  She  could 
not  but  observe  it.  He  did  not  waste  breath  saying  that 
it  was  wholly  extravagant,  unheard  of,  that  a  child  of 
sixteen  in  quite  low  water  should  travel  from  London  to 
Yorkshire  in  order  to  restore  him  his  small  piece  of 
property  in  person,  and  then,  oblivious  of  possible  profit 
or  reward,  vanish  into  the  wilderness  again.  It  fell  in 
easily,  as  it  seemed,  with  John's  conception  of  the  girl: 
a  conception  picked  up  at  random,  since  he  could  at  most 
have  had  only  a  few  scattered  glimpses  of  her;  whereas 
Ursula  had  had  the  benefit  of  a  prolonged  and  searching 
enquiry,  the  whole  object  of  which  had  been  Miss  Jacoby's 
religious  practice  and  principles,  and  had  dismissed  her 
at  the  end  in  very  fair  security.  Not  that  it  was  the  first 
time,  of  course,  that  John's  views  and  Ursula's  upon  a 
young  female  had  failed  to  coincide, —  that  was  always 
happening;  but  in  this  case  his  rush  of  ready  conviction, 
indifferent  as  it  were,  seemed  threatening  to  disturb  her 
own. 


336  THE  ACCOLADE 

"What  was  it  she  left  for  Mr.  Auberon?  — a  letter?" 
she  asked. 

"  A  book."  His  hand  moved  to  his  pocket.  "  Her 
journal.  Of  course  the  whole  evidence  is  there." 

"  John !     Why  don't  you  look,  then?  " 

"  I  can't,"  he  said  again,  frowning.     "  Can't  you  see  ?  " 

Ursula  found  she  had  to  "  see,"  since  his  manner  really 
allowed  her  no  escape.  She  disliked  the  necessity,  con- 
scious of  being  swept  from  her  everyday  bearings  into  a 
larger,  darker  world,  the  world  into  which,  all  this  time, 
he  had  been  looking  steadily. 

"  What  do  you  think  —  she's  done  ?  "  she  said,  nerv- 
ously. 

"  I  hope  that  one  of  the  sixty  odd  people  I  have  warned 
to-night  have  arrested  her.  I've  been  at  two  stations  and 
all  the  inns,  and  most  of  the  farms,  and  driven  my  wishes 
into  their  thick  skulls  all  I  know." 

"Yes?"  said  Ursula. 

"I  hope  that.     And  I  fear " 

"  Don't,  John !  "  She  broke  in  upon  him.  "  She  — 
she  couldn't,  at  her  age." 

"  No  child-suicides  in  the  world,  are  there  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Did  you  ever  look  at  the  statistics  ?  " 

"  There  aren't,  here."  So  spoke  the  Englishwoman, 
obstinately. 

"  Well,  and  she  didn't  belong  here.  She  belonged  — 
that  of  her  that  didn't  belong  to  the  stars  —  to  the  most 
neurotic  nation  in  Europe, —  and  she  showed  it  too,  at 
every  turn.  I  was  frightened  a  bit,  that  time  she  acted. 
So  was  Fanny,  though  she  didn't  say  much.  I  bet  she 
was  thinking  the  same.  Kid  was  all  right  in  the  shop, 
you  know, —  the  trade,  I  don't  mean  that.  She  wanted 
working  hard,  though,  working  to  death, —  some  of  them 
do.  She  never  seemed  quite  —  I'm  speaking  in  the  past 
tense,"  said  Johnny,  breaking  off  of  a  sudden.  "  I  don't 
want  to,  I  want  to  keep  sight  of  all  the  chances.  There 
are  other  chances,  of  course, —  perhaps  I'm  a  fool.  But 


STRETTO  337 

it  feels  bad  to  me,  distinctly  bad.  Since  we're  alone  I 
don't  mind  saying  so.  I  know  the  sort,  you  know, — 
I've  so  to  speak  met  it  about.  .  .  .  And  the  river's  there," 
he  added. 

Ursula  remained  transfixed  and  staring,  while  he  spoke. 
"The  river?"  she  repeated  after  him  uncomfortably. 
"  It's  dangerous,  of  course, —  the  bank's  steep  near  the 
road." 

"  Dangerous,  that's  it,"  agreed  Johnny.  "  Jolly  dan- 
gerous." His  dark  eyes,  unusually  brilliant,  pierced  her 
passingly,  above  the  clouds  of  his  own  steam.  The  hot 
fire  had  penetrated  him  by  this  time,  and  he  was  steam- 
ing like  a  volcano.  Ursula  put  out  a  hand  to  feel  his 
sleeve,  and  for  once  he  let  her,  tamely. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  always  like  to  think  —  the 
worst,"  she  said  resentfully,  replying  to  the  look,  as  she 
dropped  the  hand. 

"  Face  it,"  substituted  Johnny.  "  Better  to  face  the 
worst,  along  with  the  other  chances.  Then  you  can  look 
at  'em,  and  compare,  and  take  the  most  probable,  can't 
you  ?  "  She  said  nothing,  so  he  elaborated.  "  It  might  be 
an  accident,  as  you  say.  She  might  have  left  the  road, 
and  walked  along  the  bank  to  —  er  —  see  the  view,  and 
got  too  near,  and  slipped  in,  mightn't  she  ?  Only  it's  not 
probable,  because  you  don't  see  views  at  midnight:  and 
as  for  warning,  the  beck  itself  would  warn  her,  fast 
enough.  The  Mule's  making  a  bit  of  a  noise  to-night. 
Listen !  "  He  threw  back  his  head. 

Ursula  did  not  listen.  "  Well,"  she  said,  as  coolly  as 
she  could,  folding  her  hands,  "  being  so  clever,  what  do 
you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

"Oh, —  er  —  much  what  you  would  have  done  if  it 
had  been  an  accident,"  said  Johnny,  turning  tiresome  at 
once,  as  soon  as  he  had  divined  her  curiosity.  "  Because 
the  results  would  be  just  the  same  in  the  two  cases. 
Specially  in  a  stream  as  quite  considerably  out  of  hand  as 
the  Mule  is  this  evening." 


338  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,"  said  Ursula  in  her  repressive 
tone.  Johnny  let  himself  be  repressed :  he  did  not  seem 
much  to  want  to  be  otherwise. 

"  I  must  write  to  Auberon,"  was  his  next  remark,  after 
a  space  of  motionless  reflection  against  the  chimney-piece. 
"  I  wired,  but  I  said  I  was  writing,  so  I  must."  He  felt 
for  his  pen. 

"  You  needn't,  now,"  protested  Ursula.  "  Do  leave  it 
till  the  morning." 

He  merely  said  he  must,  while  it  was  fresh.  He  had 
to  tell  Auberon  just  what  he  had  done,  and  meant  to  do, 
to  spare  his  coming  uselessly  from  London.  Of  course, 
one  man  was  enough:  and  Johnny  was,  or  had  been, 
equally  concerned. 

Ursula  refused  to  see  that  he  was  the  least  responsible. 
So  far  as  she  could  gather  from  his  account,  in  the  prac- 
tical matter  of  the  theft,  he  had  only  done  what  anyone 
would  do.  She  did  not  see  why  they  should  be  further 
concerned  with  it,  really.  The  girl,  having  played  off 
her  little  coup,  her  little  score,  as  John  would  say,  had 
gone  back  to  her  disreputable  father,  probably.  It  was 
only  vexatious  that  Ursula  should  ever  have  been  be- 
guiled into  recommending  her, —  a  girl  who  played  tricks 
on  men  like  Mr.  Auberon  and  John.  However,  it  was  no 
use  arguing  with  her  husband,  in  this  state.  She  let  him 
go  his  way. 

"  Mr.  Auberon  won't  be  back  in  town  till  Monday,"  she 
observed  presently.  "  He's  still  at  that  place  above  Ken- 
dal.  The  Falkland  girl  knows  his  movements,  and  she's 
coming  to  us  to-morrow." 

"  Is  she  ? "  said  Johnny  absently.  He  was  writing. 
"  Kendal  then,—  I'll  send  to  both." 

"If  you'd  spoken  to  me  before  you  went  out,"  said 
Ursula  after  another  interval,  moralizing  in  a  quiet  room, 
"  you  needn't  have  wasted  a  telegram." 

"  It  won't  be  wasted,  it'll  get  round,"  said  Johnny,  still 
absent.  Of  course,  he  would  never  allow  her  to  be  right : 


STRETTO  339 

that  was  inconceivable.  He  played  with  his  report  to 
Mr.  Auberon  for  some  time, —  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
thinking  much  about  it,  smoking,  and  fidgeting  about,  and 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "  Fidgeting  "  was  Ursula's 
word,  ridiculously  inappropriate  to  his  lazy,  easy  move- 
ments. But  then  John  did  everything  by  means  of  ap- 
pearing not  to  do  it :  Ursula  had  never  seen  him  sit  seri- 
ously down  to  a  thing  in  his  life.  How  he  got  through 
his  letters,  she  never  could  imagine,  considering  the 
variety  and  voracity  of  his  correspondents:  yet  he  man- 
aged somehow  to  content  them  all,  and  he  contented  him- 
self, by  the  things  he  wrote,  enormously.  He  covered  a 
sheet  or  two,  to  his  satisfaction,  to-night.  After  that  he 
wrote  to  Miss  Darcy  that  the  Marechale  had  turned  up, 
and  he  hoped  to  send  her  news  of  the  other  young  person 
shortly, —  Ursula  never  even  suggested  this,  it  was  his 
own  idea.  Then  at  last  he  could  be  persuaded  to  settle, 
or  sleep  if  so  inclined,  in  his  chair.  Move  to  the  upper 
floor  he  would  not, —  Ursula  began  to  wonder  if  he  meant 
to  stay  there  all  night.  But  he  might  be  intending  to 
migrate  to  his  log-house  as  soon  as  she  left  him  in  peace : 
he  had  all  the  materials  for  camping  there,  since  it  was 
his  pleasure  to  believe  he  could  use  it  if  he  wished.  In 
ways  like  that,  he  was  a  schoolboy.  Wherever  he  was 
he  liked  to  have  a  corner,  a  retreat, —  played,  as  it  were, 
with  his  independence.  Ursula  had  grown  used  to  it: 
she  even  had  a  theory  that  he  had  done  it  in  youth  to 
escape  from  his  father,  and  had  made  the  habit  too  young 
to  break  it  easily. 

Now  she  might  have  left  him  to  his  devices, —  she  was 
tired  out, —  only  she  did  not  want  solitude  at  present :  she 
felt  safer,  curiously,  at  his  side.  The  idea  that  he  could 
face  the  chance  of  that  girl  drowning  herself,  on  a  nasty 
wet  night  like  this,  calmly  as  he  did,  or  at  least  easily, — 
it  stirred  very  unpleasant  sensations.  She  tried  to  believe 
it  was  his  nonsense,  love  of  posing,  love  of  teasing  her, — 
such  a  thing  could  not  remain  sober  possibility  by  the 


340  THE  ACCOLADE 

light  of  day.  Yet  he  had  not  looked  light-minded  when 
he  talked,  the  contrary :  and  he  was  certainly  putting  him- 
self out  in  an  unusual  degree. 

She  decided  to  converse,  at  last,  as  the  least  of  evils. 
Thinking  wearied  her  so.  Unluckily  as  soon  as  she 
wished  for  conversation,  John  seemed  more  inclined  to 
go  to  sleep.  However,  whenever  her  nervous  little  ob- 
servations reached  him,  he  was  pleasant  enough ;  at  least 
he  did  not  snap,  as  he  had  done  when  he  first  came  in. 

"  They  say  Kettley  Bridge  is  dangerous,"  she  remarked 
once,  in  the  growing  stillness  of  the  room :  forgetting  he 
had  heard  when  she  did.  "  The  engineer's  been  down  to 
look  at  it." 

"  So  they  told  me,"  said  Johnny,  stirring.  "  I  crossed 
it  twice  this  evening." 

"  John !  "     She  jumped.     "  How  could  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  quite  easy,"  said  Johnny,  arranging  his  arms 
behind  his  head.  "  And  by  the  same  token,  though  it's 
been  damned  —  condemned  —  since  this  morning,  that  ass 
Levinson  had  never  set  a  watch.  Anyone  could  get  across 
it, —  so  I  did,  on  Rachel." 

"But  why?" 

"  Quickest  way  to  the  line,  of  course ;  I  wanted  to  be 
at  the  station  before  the  up-train.  It's  my  bridge,  not 
Levinson's,"  added  Johnny,  as  though  that  had  anything 
to  do  with  it. 

Kettley  Bridge  had  been  for  a  century  back  a  bone  of 
contention  between  the  two  families  who  owned  land  on 
either  side  of  the  Mule.  Ursula,  of  course,  knew  the 
story, —  indeed,  living  with  Johnny,  she  had  heard  too 
much  of  it.  There  had  been  a  Suit  in  Chancery,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  on  the  subject,  in  the  time  of  John's 
grandfather,  the  Ingestre  of  the  day :  who  had,  to  the  dis- 
gust of  his  descendant,  lost  the  case.  Kettley  Bridge,  its 
rights,  and  its  reparation,  were  adjudged  to  the  other 
party,  with  whose  present  representative,  Lord  Levinson, 
the  Ingestres  had  naturally  picked  as  many  quarrels  as 


STRETTO  341 

possible,  ever  since.  But  the  bridge  remained  the  sorest 
point :  and  Ursula,  glancing  at  John's  face,  suspected  him 
of  being  secretly  pleased,  now  that  the  "  ass  "  Levinson 
had  proved  himself  so  palpably  unworthy  of  his  charge. 
It  consoled  Johnny  for  much,  that  fact;  even  for  the 
prospect  of  the  whole  of  the  Routhwick  inhabitants  being 
forced,  in  the  event  of  the  bridge's  collapse  or  disable- 
ment, to  go  eight  miles  round  to  the  railway. 

She  returned  to  the  immediate  matter  of  his  reckless- 
ness in  riding  over.  She  talked  for  some  time  about  it, 
and  Johnny  listened  to  the  lecture,  eyes  cast  down. 
"  You  might  have  sent  somebody,"  was  her  final  remark. 

"  My  best  enemy  ?  "  enquired  Johnny.  "  I  say,  you 
ought  to  have  been  a  mediaeval  baron's  wife."  He  added, 
as  though  recollecting  for  her  benefit, — "  I  didn't  notice 
any  cracks  going  across, —  nor  did  Rachel,  or  she'd  have 
let  me  know.  I  expect  Levinson's  engineer's  a  fool." 

"  Anyone  but  you,  of  course,"  said  Ursula. 

"  I  should  have  been  sorry  to  lose  Rachel,"  said  Johnny, 
after  a  prolonged  silence.  Ursula  had  thought  he  was 
asleep,  but  he  seemed  to  have  been  thinking  it  over. 

She  found  no  reply,  so  the  subject  dropped. 


II 

"  The  bridge  is  gone,"  was  his  first  remark  the  next 
morning.  He  greeted  her  with  it  when  she  came  down- 
stairs. "  One  pier  is  breached  completely,  and  the  rest 
will  go  in  the  day.  I  say,  the  river's  colossal.  You'll 
have  to  come  and  look." 

It  was  still  raining  without,  though  less  furiously,  and 
from  a  slightly  clearer  sky ;  but  even  that,  in  other  parts 
of  the  country,  would  have  been  called  a  very  wet  day. 
However,  since  it  was  evident  that  most  of  her  household 
had  turned  out  to  look  at  the  Mule  in  spate,  Mrs.  Ingestre 
did  likewise.  It  was  certainly,  in  its  way,  a  thrilling  sight, 
and  stirred  even  her  apathy  a  little.  There  was  a  vast 


342  THE  ACCOLADE 

quantity  of  water, —  three  times  as  much  as  usual, —  four, 
five  times,  it  was  useless  to  calculate, —  and  it  was  making 
a  great  noise.  She  had  heard  the  noise  in  the  night  as  she 
lay  awake,  and  had  some  thoughts  of  thankfulness  that 
the  house  had  not  been  built  nearer  to  such  a  clattering 
stream.  Ursula  did  not  go  as  far  as  the  bridge,  naturally, 
not  having  breakfasted, —  that  was  a  mile  away ;  but  the 
country  people  and  servants,  standing  in  groups  about  the 
steep  bank  with  skirts  or  kerchiefs  over  their  heads, 
pointed  her  out  a  piece  of  the  masonry,  with  an  obliter- 
ated figure  of  the  bridge's  date  upon  it,  which  had  been 
swept  down  as  far  as  Routhwick  gates. 

Ursula  looked  at  it,  vaguely  impressed;  the  thing  had 
once  been  an  object  in  the  landscape,  certainly;  but  she 
could  not  have  John's  feelings,  who  had  known  Kettley 
Bridge  from  his  earliest  years.  He  had  been  up  early, 
—  if  he  had  slept  at  all, —  and  talked  to  everyone,  includ- 
ing Lord  Levinson's  engineer,  through  his  hands,  across 
the  river :  though  he  carefully  abstained  from  addressing 
that  worthy  proprietor  himself. 

"  He's  chiefly  pleased  with  himself  for  having  said  so, 
yesterday,"  said  Johnny  sarcastically,  of  the  engineer. 
"  And  when  I  asked  if  Levinson  would  build  it  up  during 
the  next  half-century,  he  said  nothing;  or  at  least,  noth- 
ing that  I  could  understand." 

"  Perhaps  Lord  Levinson  was  too  near  him,"  said 
Ursula. 

"  Or  perhaps,"  suggested  Johnny,  "  he  had  never  been 
taught  to  speak."  He  had  to  score  over  that  engineer 
somehow.  "  Bridge  went  at  about  three  o'clock,"  he 
added  pensively.  "  Jove,  I  wish  I'd  been  there !  " 

"  And  you  crossed  it " 

"  About  five  hours  previously.  Five  hours  too  soon," 
said  Johnny,  as  he  walked  back  to  the  house  at  her  side. 
"  Too  soon  for  the  fun,  of  course,  I  mean." 

Ursula  wished  he  would  not  be  so  silly.  He  had  done 
the  same  thing  the  night  before,  hinting, —  it  annoyed  her. 


STRETTO  343 

It  was  simply  boasting, —  John  was  not  the  least  the  kind 
of  man  to  kill  himself,  or  to  let  himself  be  killed  tamely, 
in  any  circumstances.  She  felt  a  good  deal  more  secure 
than  Johnny's  own  mother  had  felt,  as  to  that.  He  was 
too  fond  of  his  own  comfort,  for  one  thing,  not  to  say  his 
own  appearance.  The  wife's  view  of  the  husband  is 
biassed  a  little  after,  say,  ten  years'  matrimony  at  his  side, 
by  the  fact  that  she  must  provide  food  and  easy  chairs 
for  him,  in  all  circumstances.  A  civilized  home-keeping 
wife,  like  Ursula,  seldom  sees  her  man  in  the  most  flatter- 
ing circumstances, —  she  invariably  sees  him  in  the  least 
flattering,  and  beyond  escape.  She  has  to  take  much  on 
faith,  in  short :  and  since  Ursula's  faith  in  her  young  man 
was  limited;  and  since  he  swept  her  out  of  the  way  when- 
ever he  turned  active,  or  took  things  in  earnest,  she  had 
little  chance  to  improve  her  views. 

She  had  not  seen  him,  for  instance,  that  morning,  when 
he  stood  at  break  of  day  by  the  wrecked  bridge  of  his 
childhood,  and  looked  at  all  the  water-spirits  of  the  white 
Mule,  whiter  in  the  dawn,  broken  loose,  glutted  with  con- 
quest, careering  down  the  dale.  It  was  a  spectacle  to  go 
to  the  heart  of  any  hill-bred  man.  Johnny  always  upheld 
the  Yorkshire  rivers  against  all  native  rivals,  against  the 
Scotch,  against  the  Welsh, —  even  against  that  majestic 
Dart,  set  in  golden  bracken  and  age-worn  rock,  which 
Helena,  very  properly,  had  advanced  against  him  once 
in  conversation.  Standing  there,  watching  the  Mule's 
mad  race,  letting  himself  be  bemused  by  its  innumerable 
noises,  he  had  wanted  Helena  instantly,  instinctively, — 
just  to  show  her  how  wrong  she  was !  She  was  in  every 
outburst  of  Nature's  glory  for  him,  as  the  beloved  always 
is  for  those  that  haunt  the  shrine.  This  was  his  country, 
his  own  beck,  he  could  have  sketched  her  the  shape  of 
every  rock  in  sight  from  that  bridge, —  those  rocks  which 
were  now  overwhelmed  and  formless  with  white  water. 
He  had  washed  there,  waded  there,  plunged  in  midday 
heat  into  the  shadowed  pools,  he  was  king  of  every  curve 


344  THE  ACCOLADE 

of  that  water-way,  simply  by  right  of  knowing  it,  not 
because  his  father  owned  the  land.  So  he  drew  Helena 
into  his  reverie,  being  his  own  as  well,  sharing  his  rap- 
tures of  necessity:  and  they  watched  it  together  in  the 
slowly  growing  light. 

Nor  had  his  wife  seen  him  the  night  before,  when  he 
devoted  himself  for  several  hours  of  unrelaxing  effort  to 
the  quest  for  the  other  girl,  the  lost  one;  directing  half 
a  dozen  assistants,  and  not  sparing  himself.  That,  his 
business  incarnation,  she  hardly  knew  better  than  his  im- 
aginative one.  This  morning  too,  before  Ursula  found 
and  fed  him,  he  had  been  about  the  work  again :  examin- 
ing the  various  nets  he  had  spread  over-night,  to  see  if 
that  little  fish  were  caught  in  one  of  them ;  and  again  at 
table  he  was  absent  rather,  put  out  and  puzzled  by  his 
unsuccess.  Jill  might  have  been  a  ghost  or  a  fairy,  she 
had  passed  so  utterly  disregarded.  Yet  she  was  a  figure 
to  attract  the  Yorkshire  attention,  lame  and  un-English, 
her  hair  queerly  dressed  and  her  accent  peculiar, —  most 
outlandish  to  their  views.  Ursula  put  that  point  as  she 
made  the  coffee,  and  John  seemed  to  accept  it,  for  a  time. 

Then  he  broke  out  with  a  theory  of  her  genius, —  that 
those  who  can  act  at  all,  can  act  anything.  Having  got 
his  coffee  out  of  Ursula's  deliberate  hands,  and  feeling 
happier  in  consequence,  he  elaborated  this  view,  carrying 
it  to  absurd  extremes,  as  soon  as  she  objected.  When  Jill 
passed  the  ticket-collector,  he  said, —  always  granted  she 
came  by  rail  at  all, —  she  was  looking  exactly  as  plain  and 
cantankerous  as  one  of  the  Leeds  mill-girls,  whom  she  had 
been  studying  in  the  train.  When  she  enquired  the  way 
to  Routhwick, —  as  she  must  have  had  to  enquire  from 
somebody, —  she  was  looking  exactly  as  Londonified  and 
pretty-pretty  as  one  of  those  girls  from  the  other  place, 
summoned  urgently  from  the  south  to  join  the  Routhwick 
staff. 

"Do  you  mean  the  housemaid  at  the  Hall?"  said 
Ursula  patiently. 


STRETTO  345 

Yes,  Johnny  meant  her:  the  one  with  all  the  hair,  a 
most  loathsome  female.  That  little  girl  Hannah  last 
night,  the  one  that  washed  the  flags,  was  ten  times  her 
superior. 

"  You  didn't  think  so  at  the  time,"  said  Ursula.  "  You 
frightened  poor  Hannah, —  she  had  been  crying  when  she 
came  to  me." 

Johnny  seemed  interested,  but  not  remorseful.  It  did 
not  hurt  any  of  them  to  cry  at  times.  He  explained  it 
was  really  because  his  standard  for  the  Routhwick 
girls  was  so  elevated.  She  could  tell  Hannah  that,  if 
she  liked,  or  he  would  if  he  happened  to  see  her.  The 
chances  were,  to-day,  that  he  would  be  doing  other 
things. 

Ursula  took  this  to  indicate  that  he  would  not  be  found 
in  the  kitchen  in  the  middle  of  the  working-morning: 
which  was  as  well  for  the  household  order  generally,  and 
the  steadiness  of  the  younger  maids.  Nor  was  he:  she 
saw  little  of  him  all  day. 

When  the  belated  post  came  in, —  delayed  by  the 
floods,  or  the  bridge's  collapse,  so  Ursula  vaguely  compre- 
hended,—  he  was  there,  appeared  as  it  were  from  no- 
where, and  claimed  his  part.  Ursula  had  a  card  from 
Helena  Falkland,  which  she  kept :  and  though  his  eye  was 
on  it,  he  asked  no  question.  She  also  had  a  long  and 
piteous  screed  from  old  Miss  Darcy,  which  she  handed 
to  John,  having  glanced  it  through  with  a  shrug.  He 
took  it  away,  with  the  rest  of  his  things,  to  study  in  re- 
tirement, or  on  horseback,  or  ranting  about  the  grounds, 
—  whatever  he  had  immediately  in  prospect :  she  did  not 
ask. 

As  the  day  proceeded  he  grew  wilder,  more  oddly 
radiant,  like  his  mood  of  the  night  before  with  a  differ- 
ence, the  sulkiness  or  nervousness  was  swept  away.  Why 
not?  Helena's  spirit  had  been  with  him  in  the  dawn,  as 
he  stood  by  the  river;  and  all  day  long  her  body  was 
drawing  nearer,  by  the  devious  dawdling  lines  from  Ken- 


346  THE  ACCOLADE 

dal.  He  felt  it  was:  he  had  no  need  of  time-tables  or 
post  cards :  he  was  sure. 

Ursula  chased  him  after  luncheon,  since  he  did  not 
come  in  for  that  meal,  enquired  of  everybody,  found  he 
had  been  in  most  places,  and  ran  him  down  finally  in  his 
own  log-house  in  the  Lyke-wood,  at  about  three  o'clock. 
She  met  coming  away  from  the  log-house  as  she  ap- 
proached it  a  person  who  saluted  her,  and  whom  she  just 
recognized  as  the  police-constable  from  Egstone,  their 
nearest  town. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Johnny  impatiently :  as  though  she  had 
not  at  least  as  much  right  there  as  the  police. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  your  intentions,"  said  Ursula, 
with  beautiful  moderation,  and  in  an  agreeable  tone. 

"  What  about?  "     He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"  Those  children, —  the  Falklands.  Are  you  going  to 
meet  them?  Because  if  not,  I  must.  They  will  have  to 
come  right  round  by  Egstone,  and  that's  eight  miles." 

"  I  know,"  said  Johnny.  "  I  told  them  at  the  stable. 
Eight  miles  is  nothing  on  a  decent  road." 

"  Then  you're  going?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  thought  Ursula.  It  was  not  his  habit  to 
meet  the  lady  visitors.  It  was  only  this  visitor  he  was 
bound  to  meet.  Yet  she  had  not  been  certain  he  would 
go :  he  had  been  so  odd,  lately.  "  I  wasn't  sure,"  she  said 
aloud,  "  if  you  knew  the  train." 

"  There's  only  one  they  could  come  by,"  said  Johnny. 
"  Now  get  out, —  do  you  mind  ?  " 

A  spurt  of  sheer  rudeness,  just  like  him:  and  when 
there  was  not  the  least  necessity.  Ursula  wished  he 
would  at  least  preserve  the  forms.  At  times  he  did,  even 
in  private,  and  always  before  the  world.  But  she  could 
not  count  on  him ;  every  now  and  then  he  would  give  her 
these  cruel  starts,  unforevvarned,  showing  her,  as  it  were, 
the  truth, —  the  clean,  naked,  paralyzing  truth  she  wished 
not  to  look  upon. 


STRETTO  347 

She  surprised  herself  in  the  wood  by  a  sob, —  she  who 
never  cried.  It  was  wicked  of  him,  it  really  was, —  what 
did  he  mean  by  it?  For  a  minute  she  felt  like  a  child, 
as  helpless,  and  as  mindless  too.  She  was  tired,  tired  of 
trying  to  follow  him,  cling  to  him  through  all  his  blinding 
changes ;  she  was  dazed,  it  was  all  a  work  for  which  she 
was  not  made.  How  could  he  clasp  her  wrist  and  speak 
her  name  as  he  had  done  last  night,  and  then  level  a  blow 
at  her,  across  her  face,  such  as  lay  in  the  manner  and  tone 
of  that  last  sentence?  It  was  wearing  her  out,  slowly  and 
surely.  She  could  not  go  on  so,  for  a  lifetime.  She 
might  be  driven  to  ask  mercy  soon. 

That  his  manner  was  always  directly  influenced  by  hers, 
she  did  not  know:  for  she  flattered  herself  she  had  but 
one  manner.  Whenever  she  was  thoroughly  false  in  look 
and  tone,  he  shrank  and  struck  out  instinctively.  The 
night  before  she  had  been  peaceable  and  ordinary,  a  pleas- 
ant background  in  wife-like  guise, —  she  had  not  disturbed 
him,  and  he  had  let  her  be.  He  had  even  amused  her  a 
little.  For  a  short  period  she  had  been  —  quite  unaware 
to  herself  —  piteous,  and  really  appealing.  It  was  then 
he  had  reassured  her,  and  taken  her  hand.  Insensitive 
as  she  was,  the  million  shades  of  manner  in  mortal  inter- 
course had  no  effect  upon  Ursula ;  she  could  only  say 
when  John  was  nice,  and  when  he  was  cruel  to  her.  That 
she  knew. 

It  drew  her  unwilling  tears,  now  in  the  little  wood. 
She  had  to  stand,  resting  against  a  writhen  oak,  and  re- 
cover herself.  Life,  at  that  instant,  came  to  a  stand- 
still :  misery,  weariness,  was  all  her  world.  She  wished 
she  had  not  asked  Helena,  she  did  not  want  the  effort  of 
entertaining  her.  She  saw  how  it  would  be:  John  would 
be  brilliant  and  delightful, —  he  was  furbishing  himself 
for  it,  pluming  himself  for  a  display,  anyone  could  see. 
She  would  be  at  her  worst,  fail  to  retain  her  place,  strug- 
gle vainly  for  a  full  share  of  her  rights,  and  of  course 
collapse.  The  girl  would  see  it :  he  intended  to  show  his 


THE  ACCOLADE 

power,  sacrifice  her :  that  was  his  revenge, —  and  her  last 
card  was  played. 

She  went  slowly  back  to  the  house,  when  her  limbs  felt 
stronger.  On  the  way  she  bethought  herself,  and  di- 
verted to  the  stable. 

"  Mr.  John  will  go  to  the  station,  Jarvis,"  she  said. 
"  You  need  not  drive  round  to  the  front.  Only  take 
plenty  of  rugs,  won't  you.  It's  rather  late  for  a  long 
drive." 

"  Yes'm,"  said  the  man.  He  had  his  orders  already, 
but  that  was  illicit  as  he  recognized,  behind-scenes,  since  a 
young  lady  was  arriving.  His  mistress  never  failed  her 
part,  however  her  husband  trespassed  on  her  functions. 
The  servants  felt,  and  admired,  that  immutable  standard 
of  dignity,  serenity  in  all  circumstances,  which  she  pos- 
sessed. He  made  no  single  disrespectful  comment  when 
she  had  gone. 

"  Mrs.  Ingestre  looks  ill,"  he  said  to  his  colleague  in  the 
yard.  "  I'd  some  hope  this  air  would  set  her  up,  better 
than  it's  done." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  other  man,  pleasantly  agreeing. 

"  It's  a  pity,  too,"  added  Jarvis,  "  when  it  suits  Mr. 
John  so  well." 

"  Folks  is  different,"  said  the  other  man,  half-audibly. 
He  was  almost  buried  under  hay. 

Harold  the  philosopher,  during  the  abundant  leisure  of 
their  tiresome  journey,  wondered  more  than  once  if  that 
cad  Ingestre, —  granted  he  was  at  Routhwick,  which  Har- 
old could  hardly  credit  of  his  impudence, —  would  have 
the  face  to  come  to  the  station.  He  hoped  not.  .  .  . 

Not  that  he  had  any  doubts  of  being  able  to  stand  up  to 
him  in  perfect  style,  especially  where  Helena  was  in 
question,  however  much  glitter  or  "  side  "  Ingestre  might 
offer  to  disconcert  him.  Harold  needed  not  the  resource 
of  "  side,"  his  own  destined  attitude  of  sublime  contempt 


STRETTO  349 

having  a  perfectly  solid  foundation.  There  was  no  at- 
tacking it.  A  man,  already  the  husband  of  somebody 
else,  who  could  make  Helena  look  —  well,  as  she  was 
looking  now,  sitting  in  her  further  corner,  with  her  head 
leaning  against  the  cushion, —  when  there  was  a  fellow 
like  Auberon  only  needing  a  little  time  and  tactful  man- 
agement to  marry  her,  was  a  man  whom  all  righteous,  not 
to  say  all  exquisite  persons,  barred.  Harold  "  barred  " 
him.  He  offered  him  the  renowned  black  ball.  Ingestre 
might  think  himself  superior,  but  he  was  not  in  it,  simply 
nowhere.  Harold  had  thought  about  it  from  all  possible 
points  of  view,  and  he  was  sure. 

Helena,  meanwhile,  was  contentedly,  dreamily  certain 
that  the  end  of  the  tiresome  journey  meant  his  —  Mr. 
Ingestre's  face.  He  was  still  that  to  her,  he  kept  his  title, 
his  crown,  even  though  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms.  She 
loved  her  brother  and  Quentin,  they  had  been  very  good 
to  her,  cared  for  her  beautifully,  smoothed  all  obstacles, 
shown  her,  with  the  least  effort  possible,  wondrous  things. 
Men  were  all  nice, —  Helena  had  that  happy  experience, — 
but  he  was  nicest,  and  noblest:  and  she  would  see  him 
soon. 

She  only  wanted  to  see  him,  to  be  sure  that  he  still 
wanted  her,  that  she  could  serve  him,  if  it  were  only  by 
being  near.  His  letters  were  beautiful  and  like  him,  but  it 
was  not  enough :  she  longed  for  his  presence  too,  and  his 
hand.  His  touch  was  wonderful :  from  the  first,  no  other 
man  had  ever  touched  her  so.  In  dancing,  in  rehearsing, 
in  acting,  he  had  done  so  repeatedly,  indifferently, —  he 
did  not  know  his  own  power.  The  thrill,  the  shiver  of 
rapture  it  gave  her  would  probably  be  absurd  to  him,  if 
she  could  ever  find  the  courage  to  confide.  His  face  was 
different  from  his  masterful  fingers,  certainly:  but  she 
liked  his  curious  questioning  glance  as  well.  She  mar- 
veled whether  he  had  ever  looked  at  anyone  else  like 
that ;  she  cherished  a  shy  hope  that  he  never  had. 

Well,  she  had  it,  at  the  station,  glance  and  touch  as 


350  THE  ACCOLADE 

well,  at  least  for  a  moment.  He  was  there  —  all  of  him 
—  very  much  so.  Helena  confided  things  to  him  at  once. 

"  It  has  been  wet,"  she  laughed,  standing  at  his  elbow, 
while  he  reached  her  properties  out  of  the  train. 

"Well,  what  do  you  expect,  in  the  district?"  laughed 
Johnny,  radiant  as  she. 

"  That's  what  we  said  to  one  another,  every  morning. 
But  we  expected  better  of  it  really.  Of  course  it  didn't 
matter  the  least,  we  did  everything  we  wanted  to,  and  we 
were  generally  fairly  dry  in  the  evenings.  Anyhow  the 
water  on  us  was  hot,  not  cold.  Oh, —  you  do  know  my 
brother,  don't  you?  Fancy," — she  looked  from  one  to 
the  other, — "  I  thought  you  must." 

Harold  refused  to  fancy  anything.  He  thought  Helena 
far  too  easy, —  as  for  the  cad,  his  ease  was  revolting. 
Harold  was  stiff.  As  he  walked  stiffly  behind  them  up 
the  platform,  he  began  to  think  that,  all  the  same,  he  had 
undertaken  a  rather  ticklish  responsibility.  Perhaps  he 
had  grown  a  little  too  used,  of  late,  to  Auberon's  moral 
support.  And  he  suddenly  wished  Helena  did  not  catch 
attention  on  all  sides,  as  she  did  when  she  was  really 
happy.  She  had  no  right  to  be  happy  in  Ingestre's  so- 
ciety,—  lovely  still  less.  He  would  have  to  talk  to  her 
about  it. 

"  I  promise  you,"  said  Johnny  solemnly,  as  he  packed 
her  into  the  carriage,  "  this  evening,  that  you  shall  be 
really  dry.  Will  that  suffice?" 

"  Entirely,"  said  Helena.  "  You  mean  it's  a  thick 
house  ?  " 

"  Thickish.  Unluckily  all  the  approaches  to  it  are  at 
present  broken  down,  owing  to  the  —  er  —  water." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ingestre !  Can't  we  get  there  ?  "  She  was 
laughing,  brows  up,  just  as  he  had  longed  to  see  her 
laugh. 

"  We  heard,"  said  Harold  stiffly,  "  about  the  broken 
bridge." 

"  Not    for    some    hours,"    said    Johnny    to    Helena. 


STRETTO  351 

"  What's  worse," —  he  looked  in  her  eyes, — "  I  must  leave 
you  and  your  brother  to  make  your  way  to  Routhwick 
alone.  I  have  business  here  myself,  and  I  mustn't  keep 
you. —  Am  I  excused  ? "  said  his  eyes.  Helena's  an- 
swered them. 

"  Falkland,"  said  Johnny  suddenly,  "  would  you  mind 
coming  this  way  a  minute?  It's  a  point  I  want  to  settle, 
and  it  strikes  me  you  can  help." 

Harold,  who  had  jumped  at  the  summons,  highly  un- 
expected as  it  was,  went  tamely ;  and  they  walked  into  the 
station  entrance,  while  Helena  made  friends  with  the  dogs. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  said  Johnny,  cutting  crisply  into 
business,  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight,  "  if  Auberon 
got  my  telegram  this  morning?  I  wired  to  him  in  Lon- 
don last  night." 

"  He  got  it  before  we  left  Kendal,"  said  Harold.  "  He 
was  meaning  to  stop  on  there,  till  he  heard." 

"  Stopped  up,  did  he?  Lucky  then  I  doubled  my  let- 
ter. There  was  no  necessity  to  stop." 

"  He  seemed  to  think  there  was,"  said  Harold.  He 
waited,  then  his  stiffness  gave  way  a  little.  "  He's  a  man 
who's  nuts  on  a  job,  never  lets  it  slide." 

"  So  I  have  always  supposed,"  said  Johnny,  politely. 
"  Er  —  isn't  he  due  in  town  on  Monday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  expect  he  could  get  out  of  it,  really,  at  least 
for  another  day.  I  mean,"  said  Harold,  "  he  only  thinks 
he's  wanted." 

"  I  feel  for  him,"  said  Johnny.  "  Your  sister,  I  sup- 
pose, knows  nothing  about  the  business."  Harold  merely 
shook  his  head.  "  Do  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  all  Auberon  knows,  which  wasn't  much  when 
I  left  him.  He  was  pretty  puzzled,  if  I  may  say  so.  It 
seemed  deuced  odd  ?  " 

"  It  is.  It's  nasty  too,  and  getting  nastier."  Johnny 
glanced  backward.  "  I  mustn't  keep  Miss  Falkland.  We 
can  talk  later  on,  to-night.  I  only  wanted  to  know  if  she 
knew,  and  whether  he  had  commissioned  you." 


352  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Me?"  ejaculated  Harold.  "Auberon?  Good  Gosh, 
no, —  he  wouldn't  think  of  it.  Sooner  than  that,"  he 
added,  "  he'd  come  himself." 

"  Right,"  said  Johnny,  turned,  and  called  over  his 
shoulder  his  apologies  to  Helena.  His  eyes  dwelt  one 
moment  on  her  golden  head;  then  he  vanished  into  the 
opening  of  the  station. 

Mr.  Falkland  went  back  to  the  carriage  thoughtfully. 
He  climbed  in,  pushing  away  the  dogs.  His  eyes  had  a 
dreamy  expression.  He  was  wondering, —  as  ordinary 
mortals  wonder  about  the  powers  beyond, —  what  would 
happen  if  Quentin  Auberon  and  that  fellow  Ingestre 
should  meet. 

Johnny  had  debated  long,  all  the  morning  when  he  was 
not  thinking  of  Helena,  how  much  it  was  his  business  to 
let  young  Auberon  know  of  the  evidence  that  had  fallen 
into  his  hands  regarding  Jill  Jacoby, —  regarding  her 
ideas,  intentions,  and  all  too  probable  fate.  It  was  a  most 
extraordinary  coil,  and  he  scolded  himself  for  the  con- 
viction that  was  weighing  on  him,  growing  in  weight,  that 
the  girl  had  left  Routhwick  in  sudden  panic  that  night, 
having  restored  his  property  to  him,  only  to  take  leave 
of  all  her  earthly  troubles,  as  soon  as  possible,  under  cover 
of  the  night.  He  would  have  done  so  in  her  place,  that 
was  all  of  which  he  could  be  certain.  It  was  by  feeling 
along  the  line  of  her  individuality  that  certainty  reached 
him, —  that  "  temperament "  always  really  so  simple,  to 
him  so  familiar,  which  even  in  its  feminized  variety  he 
could  guess. 

That  was  his  strongest  evidence,  that  instinctive  knowl- 
edge: beyond  that  he  had  the  girl's  written  testimony 
in  her  strange  "  journal,"  and  old  Miss  Darcy's  letter  to 
his  wife,  with  its  lament  that  Jill  had  been  "  so  queer  " 
those  last  days,  and  then  gone,  left  her  in  the  lurch. 

He  had  glanced  at  the  journal,  only  glanced,  but  enough 
to  be  sure  that  the  idea  of  suicide  had  never  been  strange 


STRETTO  353 

to  the  child.  She  had  nourished  herself,  through  the  dan- 
gerous phase  of  exotic  girlhood,  on  the  parallel  problems 
of  love  and  death.  Her  own  deformity  absorbed  her  too, 
as  he  suspected.  In  life,  her  alternate  seductive  use  of  it, 
and  gallant  disregard  for  it,  were  a  symptom.  Without 
it,  and  the  other  impediment,  her  father,  Jill  could  have 
done  anything,  mounted  anywhere,  so  she  clearly  believed. 

Well,  that  was  bad,  a  very  bad  beginning.  Worse 
came,  when  the  will  to  love  and  be  loved,  at  all  costs, 
possessed  her, —  when  she  came  to  see  that  as  the  only 
solution,  the  single  escape.  Johnny  passed  those  pages, 
—  they  were  not  things  for  a  man  to  read.  Only,  the 
mere  fact  that  she  had  let  such  matter  out  of  her  hands 
was  significant  of  loss  of  balance, —  must  mean  some  vol- 
untary abandonment  to  despair. 

Beyond  that,  vindication  of  herself  in  the  matter  of  the 
theft,  and  vindictiveness, —  a  good  measure  of  that  as 
well.  She  certainly  meant  to  pay  the  man  out  for  daring 
to  suspect  her,  that  had  been  part  of  her  plan.  She  had 
a  double  weapon  against  him,  confession  and  self-martyr- 
dom, and  she  used  both.  She  vanished,  and  left  a  sting 
behind  her,  secure  in  the  fact  that  he  would  feel  it.  So 
he  would,  not  a  doubt.  Clever,  but  not  permissible, 
thought  Johnny.  He  had  closed  the  journal  half -read, 
determining  that  that  boy,  clean  and  steady  and  sane,  per- 
fectly just  in  his  dealings  so  far  as  his  lights  would  carry 
him,  should  never  look  into  it.  There  was  no  need. 
There  was  no  reason  to  bring  a  strong  man  down,  lay 
him  low,  with  the  reckless  insinuations  of  a  neurotic  girl. 
It  was  not  fair  to  her,  the  child,  either.  Viewing  her  as 
a  child,  it  was  not  fair. 

Her  self -vindication  in  the  affair  of  the  portrait  was, 
however,  complete;  and  that  being  John's  business  also, 
equally  his  reproach,  he  studied  in  detail.  It  was  easy, 
for  the  last  entry  in  the  book  was  a  kind  of  summary  of 
her  case,  which,  if  true,  acquitted  her.  Jill  had  put  the 
miniature  away,  just  as  Miss  Darcy  had  described,  be- 


354  THE  ACCOLADE 

neath  the  eyes  of  her  employer,  following  directions,  and 
barely  regarding  it:  only,  she  failed  to  lock  the  drawer. 
She  thought  she  had,  fumbling  with  the  little  key,  but  she 
had  not  done  so.  About  a  week  before  she  saw  Quentin 
in  the  square  after  church,  her  father  had  called  to  see 
her,  and  Miss  Darcy  herself,  since  Jill  was  momentarily 
occupied,  let  him  in.  Here  entered,  of  course,  Ursula's 
original  mistake  or  miscalculation,  in  not  having  warned 
Miss  Darcy  of  Jacoby's  existence.  Jacoby,  however,  had 
not  asked  for  his  daughter  by  that  name :  as  "  an  old 
friend,"  with  no  doubt  a  most  taking  and  airy  manner, 
he  had  obtained  entrance ;  and  Miss  Darcy,  bent  on  kind- 
ness, had  left  him  in  the  front  room  for  five  minutes 
while  she  went  to  find  the  girl. 

Two  minutes,  possibly, —  that  would  have  been  suffi- 
cient. Jacoby,  interested  in  the  old  lady's  curios,  took 
a  turn  round  her  room,  and  tried  her  drawers.  He 
never  suspected  she  could  own  a  thing  of  colossal  value, 
naturally.  The  miniature  was  a  handy  little  object, 
worth  studying  at  his  ease,  so  he  pocketed  it,  and  re-shut 
the  drawer.  He  did  not  mention  the  matter  to  Jill,  and 
had  been  sent  packing  by  her,  very  promptly,  when  she 
came.  But  she  had  been  frightened;  and  Quentin,  that 
Sunday,  had  seen  the  relics  of  her  fear. 

Nothing  in  the  book  gave  evidence  of  her  crisis  of 
horror,  when  she  found  herself  challenged,  suspected,  out 
of  the  blue,  and  by  the  man  on  whom  her  little  hopes  had 
been  building  so  long.  John  could  imagine  that.  From 
that  minute,  it  struck  him,  her  brain  was  shaken. 
Strange  little  remarks  and  wanderings  covered  the  period 
of  those  latter  days.  The  whole  was  in  French,  of  course, 
which  made  the  sayings  more  difficult  of  rendering. 
"  She  is  snoring,"  she  wrote  of  Miss  Darcy.  "  She  takes 
things  to  make  her  sleep,  but  I  cannot,  just  yet."  Eng- 
lish occurred  in  one  place,  a  quotation :  "  '  Men  have 
died  and  worms  have  eaten  them,'  "  she  quoted  Rosalind. 
" '  but  not  for  love.' —  But  women  are  different," 


STRETTO  355 

Johnny,  glancing  here  and  there,  only  wondered  she  had 
held  up  so  long.  She  was  waiting,  so  it  soon  appeared, 
for  her  month's  salary.  Then  she  met  and  battled  with 
her  father,  one  morning  when  Miss  Darcy  thought  her 
in  church,  and  obliged  him,  terrorized  him  by  threats  of 
exposure,  suicide,  what  not,  to  re-purchase  or  redeem  the 
miniature.  In  what  quarter  it  had  been  sold,  or  pledged, 
Johnny  never  discovered ;  into  private  and  ignorant  hands, 
most  probably,  since  any  respectable  dealer  in  the  town 
must  have  suspected,  or  at  least  come  nearer  to  its  value. 
It  was  surely  one  of  the  oddest  adventures  that  little  por- 
trait had  suffered  in  a  not  uneventful  life,  to  be  sold  and 
re-purchased  for  sums  which  severally  would  hardly  have 
paid  for  one  of  the  pearls. 

All  this  he  meant  to  tell  Auberon;  he  had  already 
hinted  a  part.  As  for  Miss  Darcy,  he  would  be  able,  in 
time,  with  judicious  manipulation,  to  soothe  her.  She 
really  seemed  to  have  cared  for  the  girl,  had  treated  her 
generously,  and  was  shocked  out  of  all  reason  by  her 
sudden  disappearance,  and  the  note  she  left  to  say  that 
she  was  never  coming  back.  Ungrateful,  that  note 
sounded,  flippant,  if  not  quite  wild.  "  Sleep  well,"  it  fin- 
ished,—  that  looked  as  though  the  former  preoccupation 
as  to  sleeping, —  the  need  of  sleeping, —  had  returned  to 
the  child's  half-crazed  brain. 

By  accident,  or  with  intention,  Johnny  now  believed  she 
must  have  done  it.  Nothing  else  could  explain  her  elimi- 
nation, as  it  were,  from  the  neighborhood.  She  might, 
of  course,  have  slipped  or  stumbled  to  her  death.  The 
river  must  have  tempted  her,  those  wild  white  spirits 
whose  appeal  Johnny  himself  had  been  barely  able  to 
resist.  He  had  let  that  thought  cross  his  own  brain,  as 
he  stood  by  the  Mule, — "  a  magnificent  death," —  and 
magnificence  appealed,  would  appeal  to  the  end,  in  just 
the  same  degree  to  Jill.  If  so,  of  course,  they  would 
never  find  her;  they  might  almost  as  well  give  up  the 
search.  In  miles  of  torrent  water,  with  endless  irregu- 


356  THE  ACCOLADE 

larities,  rapids,  and  deep  pools,  it  is  by  a  mere  chance  that 
an  object  washed  down  ever  reappears. 

He  would  do  what  he  could,  of  course,  all  sensible 
precautions;  he  had  been  doing  so,  and  authorities  were 
warned  in  all  directions,  but  especially  down-stream. 
Johnny's  name  went  for  much,  and  he  was  sure  of  prompt 
service  and  secrecy.  Equally  of  necessity,  his  little 
Helena  must  know  nothing:  it  was  all  a  deal  too 
grim. 

That  was  his  last  conclusion  as  he  rose  from  the  station 
bench  where  he  had  been  reposing,  running  through  in 
mind  the  list  of  telegraph  and  telephone  communications 
recently  sent.  The  cutting  of  the  nearest  road  communi- 
cation with  Routhwick  was  a  bore:  apt  to  delay  mes- 
sages, at  least  such  as  came  along  the  line.  The  fact 
that  the  following  day  was  Sunday  was  a  bore  as  well, 
—  a  country  Sunday  being  stagnation.  However,  he 
thought  he  had  done  all,  for  the  moment,  that  he  need. 

His  tall  form  passed  out  of  the  station  slowly.  He  was 
reflecting,  looking  ahead,  with  Helena  —  an  evening  with 
Helena  —  solely  in  his  mind. 

"  Isn't  that  Mr.  Ingestre,  of  Routhwick?  "  said  a  south- 
country  porter,  to  a  boy. 

"  'Course  it  is,"  said  the  boy  contemptuously. 

"  Well  then,  you  catch  him.  He's  wanted  at  the  office, 
message  just  come.  No  need  to  telephone  it  further,  if 
he's  here." 

The  boy  offered  to  carry  the  message, —  there  was  more 
chance  that  way  of  a  penny  for  his  pains. 

"  You  do  as  you're  told,"  said  the  porter  in  a  particular 
manner.  "  Sharp." 

The  boy  whistled,  seeing  his  look:  turned  sober,  and 
went. 

Gravity  is  communicable,  somehow:  especially  through 
the  medium  of  simple  minds.  Mr.  Ingestre  of  Routhwick 
happened  to  be  cared  for  in  that  neighborhood, —  and  Mrs. 


STRETTO  357 

Ingestre,  of  Routhwick,  had  been  so  in  past  times,  still 
more. 

Johnny  read  the  message  offered  him,  four  words  long, 
without  a  change  of  countenance.  He  had  been  prepared 
for  it  daily,  of  course,  for  a  month,  or  thought  he  had 
been  prepared.  The  two  men  at  his  side,  and  the  breath- 
less boy,  had  quite  unconsciously  taken  off  their  hats. 

"  If  you'll  allow  us  to  express  our  sorrow,  sir,"  said  the 
old  station-master,  naturally  the  spokesman,  in  the  fine 
northern  speech  which  it  is  a  wrong  to  travesty,  "  we  have 
never  forgotten  her  here." 

Johnny  looked  round  him  once. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said.  "  My  mother  always  loved  the 
place.  She'd  have  lived  here  if  she  could." 


in 

Helena  was  patient  to  find  his  place  empty  at  dinner, 
Harold  was  vaguely  relieved.  Ursula  was  vexed  ex- 
tremely. The  kind  of  irregularity  was  what  vexed  her 
most,  and  John  did  it  of  late,  she  was  certain,  simply  to 
disturb  her.  What  object  could  he  have  in  such  be- 
havior? Going  to  meet  and  flirt  with  the  girl  at  the  sta- 
tion—  quite  unnecessarily  —  as  he  had  done,  obviously, 
in  his  best  style ;  and  then  failing  what  was  his  plain  duty 
at  dinner.  It  looked  extraordinary  before  the  servants, 
too, —  if  he  would  only  ever  think  of  appearances. 
Lastly,  since  she  had  no  explanation  to  offer,  it  threw  a 
most  uncomfortable  burden  upon  her. 

"  Mr.  John's  come  back  from  Kettley,  I  suppose?"  she 
said  to  his  servant,  Blandy,  who  waited. 

"  I  believe  he  has  returned,  madam,"  said  the  young 
man,  with  a  face  of  stone.  He  was  immovable,  as  Ursula 
had  long  known :  though  she  used  him  almost  as  freely  as 
John.  Blandy,  much  bullied  in  old  days,  beautifully 
trained  in  about  four  professions  at  present,  was  an 
anomaly  in  a  respectable  household, —  as  much  so  as 


358  THE  ACCOLADE 

John's  studio  in  London.  He  had  gone  camping  with 
Johnny  and  his  special  gang,  both  before  and  after  mar- 
riage, and  people  like  the  Earl  of  Dering  treated  him, 
under  Ursula's  nose,  like  a  dear  old  friend.  He  was  cer- 
tainly not  a  valet,  that  was  absurd:  he  was  something 
between  a  maid-of -all-work  and  an  orderly.  He  was  still 
more  like  one  of  those  "  second  young  men  "  beloved  of 
Shakespeare,  who  hear  all  their  master's  secrets,  are  used 
as  a  dumping-ground  for  his  humors  and  a  practicing- 
ground  for  his  wit,  and  are  rewarded  with  casual  bags  of 
gold  and  the  hand  of  the  gentlewoman,  at  the  back  of 
the  stage,  while  the  lord  and  lady  settle  up  their  affairs 
in  front.  Blandy  had  been  offered  this  part  in  old  days, 
no  doubt  unconsciously,  and  he  filled  it  with  conscious 
precision.  He  was  extremely  good-looking  and  very  well- 
dressed,  and  he  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  for  Johnny. 

"  Is  he  down  at  the  bungalow  ?  " —  Ursula  insisted  on 
this  offensive  suburban  title  for  the  Lyke-wood  house. 

"  He  might  be,  madam,"  said  Blandy. 

"  Well,  does  he  know  that  dinner  is  ready  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Ingestre  lightly,  "  because  he  has  been  known  to  forget. 
Anyhow  we  are  not  going  to  wait  for  him." —  She  ad- 
dressed her  guests.  "  He's  writing,  probably,  that's  his 
way.  He  has  sudden  fits  of  it,  and  nothing  will  move 
him." 

"What  is  he  writing?"  said  Helena,  rather  shy. 
Johnny,  in  his  various  confidences,  had  not  communi- 
cated the  life-history  of  his  great-grandfather's  great- 
uncle, —  he  thought  it  unsuitable  to  Helena's  ears.  Her 
eyes,  rather,  since  most  of  his  confidences  had  been  on 
paper  lately.  It  was  painful  to  him  not  to  tell  her,  since 
it  interested  him  extremely:  but  he  had  desisted,  with 
care. 

"  You  mustn't  ask,"  said  Ursula,  smiling.  "  If  you  ask, 
he  says  — '  Oh,  something  I  thought  of/ —  just  like  a 
boy  at  school.  He's  terribly  afraid  of  being  taken  for  a 
literary  light,  did  you  know  ?  Nothing  hurts  John's  feel- 


STRETTO  359 

ings  so  much  as  being  thought  literary.  I've  often  no- 
ticed it." 

"  Well,  literary  people  are  rather  irksome,  aren't  they  ?  " 
said  Harold.  "  I've  known  one  or  two." 

Ursula  turned  to  that  side  with  relief.  She  had  taken 
to  Harold  at  once. 

"  Is  Mr.  Auberon  irksome?  "  she  asked  demurely. 

"  Auberon  doesn't  write  books." 

"What  does  he  do?"  said  Ursula. 

"  Yes,  —  what  does  he  ?  "  said  Helena.  "  I  believe 
Quentin's  a  humbug  really.  He  looks  fearfully  wise,  and 
asks  weightily  for  the  butter,  and  opens  his  letters  as 


"  Helena,"   said   Harold,   "  you'll  be   sorry   for 
you're  saying.     Don't  go  on." 

"  How  many  times  have  you  three  quarreled  in  three 
weeks  ?  "  said  Ursula  in  the  pause,  as  Miss  Falkland 
laughed.  The  servant  Blandy's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her 
as  she  laughed.  Blandy  was  lamenting  sorely  his  mas- 
ter's absence.  He  had  seldom,  in  his  varied  experience 
in  Johnny's  wake,  seen  such  a  nice  young  lady. 

"  We  haven't  really,"  said  Helena.  "  Harold  and  I 
tried  ;  but  he  always  intervened  in  such  a  far-sighted  man- 
ner, that  it  didn't  seem  worth  it  for  the  next  hundred 
years  or  so,  and  we  stopped." 

"  In  whose  favor  did  he  intervene  ?  "  said  Ursula. 

"  Harold's,"  said  Helena. 

"  Liar  !  "  said  Harold,  leaning  back.  "  Mrs.  Ingestre, 
look  here.  Auberon  always  supports  the  weaker  side. 
But  he's  always  found  on  the  stronger.  Can  you  do 
that?" 

"  I  just  can,  Mr.  Falkland,"  said  Ursula.  She  began  to 
wish  John  would  come  and  talk  to  them.  Their  lively 
young  wits  and  splendid  spirits  would  soon  undo  her,  if 
he  did  not.  "  I  am  sure,"  she  said  peaceably,  "  Mr.  Au- 
beron is  a  very  wonderful  person." 

"  He  isn't,  the  least,"  said  Harold  and  Helena  simul- 


360  THE  ACCOLADE 

taneously.     They  disclaimed  the  epithet,  eagerly  as  one 
must,  of  a  friend. 

Obviously,  Ursula  had  put  her  foot  in  it, —  but  how 
was  one  to  know?  She  had  quite  forgotten  what  it  was 
like  to  be  twenty  years  old.  It  was  only  Johnny  who 
never  forgot. 

Later,  after  dinner,  she  made  an  excuse  and  left  them. 

It  was  really  not  to  be  borne.  The  result  of  the  day's 
wearing  agitation,  with  its  alternations  of  self-reproach 
and  sharp  resentment,  was  to  make  Ursula  really  cross, — 
it  did  not  happen  often.  She  was  slow  to  anger,  as  to 
other  emotions,  and  even  when  it  moved  within  her,  she 
could  master  it,  as  a  rule.  Now  she  felt  a  refreshing 
sparkle  of  real  wrath ;  she  meant  to  get  at  him,  scold  him, 
—  she  would  have  liked  to  box  his  ears.  His  father  had 
done  that,  and  more,  she  knew,  in  his  unmanageable  youth, 
and  Ursula  had  never  doubted  it  had  been  exceedingly 
good  for  him.  She  had  even  said  so,  in  public,  among  the 
Ingestres;  and  Johnny's  grandmother  had  approved  the 
sentiment,  and  Johnny,  being  talked  of,  had  pleasantly 
agreed.  But  he  did  not  look  at  his  father  when  he  said  it ; 
and  he  never  made  capital,  for  all  his  irreverent  tongue, 
out  of  those  tales  of  parental  tyranny.  If  pressed,  he 
generally  implied  that  people  in  general,  no  names  insisted 
on,  were  perfectly  right  in  their  attempts  at  discipline,  and 
had  had  reason, —  more  than  reason, —  for  the  worst  they 
did.  It  was  only  by  talking  to  the  men,  the  older  keepers 
at  the  Hall,  and  noting  how  fiercely  they  roused  on  the 
subject,  that  his  wife  grew  to  suspect,  by  degrees,  that 
what  he  represented  as  well-meaning  but  unprofitable 
measures  to  control  him,  on  his  father's  part,  had  often 
been  sheer  violence  and  brutality. 

Being  launched  on  this  line  of  irregular  thought,  she 
recollected  another  thing.  As,  huddled  in  a  cloak,  she 
walked  rapidly  down  the  familiar  way  towards  the  Lyke- 
wood,  she  remembered  that,  in  the  good  quite  early  days 


STRETTO  361 

of  their  marriage,  when  every  possibility  lay  before,  he 
had  begged  her  to  control  his  own  temper,  by  any  means 
she  could  manage,  so  that  their  child,  when  they  had  one, 
might  never  see  him  so.  He  implied  that  for  a  child  to 
see  a  parent  beyond  himself, —  really  beyond,  as  any  of  his 
race  might  so  easily  be, —  was  a  hateful  thing  in  the  child's 
later  memory,  an  abiding  nightmare  to  be  avoided  at  all 
hazards,  prevented  by  any  means.  It  struck  her  then  that 
he  had  never  forgotten  some  of  his  father's  black  rages : 
but  she  had  dismissed  the  incident,  and  overlooked  its 
occasion,  since. 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  entered  the  log-house  with  eyes 
that  seemed  to  be  shy, —  she  had  that  strange  impression. 
She  had  never  in  her  life  seen  John  look  so,  though 
Helena  had  done  so  frequently. 

"Dinner?"  he  said. 

"Dinner!"  ejaculated  Ursula.  "It's  half-past  nine. 
You  can  have  dinner  if  you  like,  but  you  won't  get  it  with 
us."  This  was  her  mood  of  rating, —  it  had  a  faintly 
improper  effect  upon  her  own  ears,  and  she  bethought 
herself.  "Do  you  mean  they  didn't  tell  you?  Blandy 
had  no  orders?  What  on  earth  have  they  been  doing?  " 

"  It  isn't  his  fault,"  said  Johnny.  "  No  one  came  down 
here.  .  .  .  Ursula,  I  say, —  look  there." 

He  pushed  the  telegraph  message  towards  her.  Ursula, 
brought  up  short,  stared  down  at  it. 

"  Good  gracious !  "  she  said,  and  could  not  immediately 
say  more.  Then  she  drew  it  closer,  and  looked  at  the 
hour  marked  upon  it.  "  You  mean  you've  had  it  since 
four?" 

"  Bit  after  four,  wasn't  it?  I  was  down  there  when  it 
came.  So  was  Blandy,  of  course,  just  after.  He  drove 
down  to  fetch  me.  That's  why." 

Ursula  took  it  in.  He  had  told  the  servant  —  not  her ! 
Then  she  mastered  herself  anew, —  she  needed  it. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"   she  said  with  propriety.    "  Poor 


362  THE  ACCOLADE 

Mother."  Then  she  walked  slowly  away  to  the  little 
hearth,  and  stood  there,  turning  her  back  to  him.  So  like 
him  —  all  of  it  —  so  maddening,  hopeless!  —  yet  her 
tongue  was  tied.  Once  more  he  had  worsted  her  com- 
pletely. .  .  .  Ten  o'clock  on  Saturday  night,  and  the 
funeral  would  be  Tuesday, —  yes,  Tuesday  at  latest  i  The 
stupidity  of  men,  even  clever  men,  amazed  her.  Why 
could  he  never,  for  one  instant,  think  of  her  ? 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  me,"  she  said  in  a  carefully  mod- 
erate tone  at  last.  "  I'm  sorry,  of  course, —  but  it  was 
very  inconsiderate." 

"  Inconsiderate  ?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  Clothes." 

There  was  a  pause.     She  had  him, —  clothes,  to  be  sure. 

"  I  say,  I'm  beastly  sorry,"  he  said,  rising  to  his  feet. 
"  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  Has  the  post  gone  ?  What's 
to-morrow  ?  "  he  seized  the  calendar. 

"  Sunday,  of  course."  Luckily  he  felt  it  also :  it  was 
not  nothing  to  him  how  his  wife  appeared,  especially  when 
she  must,  on  so  formal  an  occasion,  hold  a  prominent 
place.  The  foremost,  indeed :  at  such  a  season  there 
would  hardly  be  another  Ingestre  woman  in  reach  of  Lon- 
don. John  felt  it  to  such  a  degree,  that  he  began  to 
scheme  for  her  immediately, —  clever,  rapid  scheming, — 
likely  to  forestall  Ursula's  grievance,  snatch  it  away  from 
her  altogether,  unless  she  hastened  to  defend  her  dignity. 

"  But  look  here, —  Sunday,"  he  broke  out.  "  You 
couldn't  have  in  any  case,  could  you?  They  wouldn't 
have  got  a  letter,  first, —  and  shops  and  so  on, —  can't  pur- 
chase on  Sunday,  can  you?  —  if  it's  purchasing  you 
want." 

Ursula  put  him  in  his  place  as  to  what  could  be  done, 
in  the  women's  world,  on  Sunday;  but  it  was  little  use. 
John  would  not  stay  in  his  place.  He  was  not  ignorant, — 
his  ideas  about  clothes  were  wonderfully  correct, —  there 
were  no  blunders  that  she  could  take  hold  of,  even  there. 

"  Lucky  for  you  I  look  forward,"  she  said,  cutting  him 


STRETTO  363 

off.  "  I  can  just  manage,  I  think,  as  it  happens,  starting 
early  on  Monday.  The  heaviest  things  I  got  before  I 
came  north." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  Johnny.  She  had  them  then, —  that 
was  all  right.  He  sat  down  again  frowning  in  his  chair. 
Well,  what  did  she  make  such  a  fuss  for,  then, —  disturb- 
ing him  ?  —  just  like  her ! 

"Are  you  going?"  he  said,  planting  his  elbows  on  the 
table,  and  playing  with  a  pen. 

"  I'll  get  out  in  a  moment,"  said  Ursula  with  intention. 
Her  resentment  was  coming  back.  She  had  been  shocked 
out  of  it  momentarily,  but  he  seemed  to  feel  his  loss  so 
little.  After  all,  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should, — 
now.  The  thing  had  lasted  long  enough, — he  had  had 
time  to  get  used  to  the  idea  of  losing  her.  He  was  making 
the  best  of  it, —  Ursula  had  that  thought.  She  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  it,  but  it  came  to  her. 

"  You  might  come  and  help  me,"  she  said,  after  an 
interval.  "  There's  young  Falkland, —  he's  a  nice  boy 
enough, —  but  still.  .  .  .  And  they  saw  you,  after  all. 
You  can't  get  out  of  it, —  pretend  not  to  be  here." 

"  No,  I  can't  pretend  it,"  said  Johnny,  looking  in  front 
of  him.  "  I  might  have  managed  —  if  I'd  not  gone  to  the 
station  —  purpose  to  rile  you  —  mightn't  I?" 

That  had  certainly  been  her  thought;  he  picked  it  up 
complete  as  usual.  He  had  himself  chosen  a  situation 
that  put  him  in  the  wrong  either  way,  whether  he  enter- 
tained the  guests,  or  held  aloof  from  them,  as  he  seemed 
more  inclined  to  do.  Ursula  had  got  so  far  as  to  suppose 
that  what  he  was  considering  was  a  question  of  etiquette. 
He  did  regard  etiquette  at  times,  generally  when  she  least 
expected  it.  Further  than  that  she  would  not  look,  it 
became  altogether  too  confusing.  She  was  tired  of  it. 
She  could  have  no  duty  in  the  case,  anyhow,  the  respon- 
sibility was  his.  Etiquette,  of  course,  she  knew  about, 
and  might  even  prompt  him  a  little. 

"  The  girl  will  offer  to  go,  at  once,  of  course,"  she  ob- 


364  THE  ACCOLADE 

served.  "  Her  manners  are  all  right.  But  I  shall  have  to 
insist  on  their  staying  till  Monday,  all  the  same,  consider- 
ing the  Sunday  trains.  I  couldn't  let  them  go  to  the  inn, 
either, —  that's  impossible.  They're  both,  so  to  speak,  in 
my  charge." 

"  Why  tell  them  at  all,  then  ? "  said  Johnny.  "  No 
point  in  it.  Only  make  them  feel  in  the  way." 

"  Would  you  really  prefer  that  ?  "  said  Ursula,  turning 
to  look  at  him  sharply.  He  did  not  meet  her  eyes,  gazing 
in  front  of  him  still.  Did  he  not  want  the  girl  to  go,  then  ? 
And  why,  if  he  intended  retirement?  Swiftly  all  her 
jealousy  and  suspicion  surged  again. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  you  must  choose,"  he  said,  breaking  out  un- 
expectedly and  leaning  back.  His  whole  expressive  face 
seemed  to  melt  and  change,  took  color  even.  "  Can't  you 
see  ?  I  can't  do  more  than  I'm  doing, —  it's  on  the  cards 
I  can't  do  that.  You'll  really  have  to  play  up,  Ursula, — 
think  a  bit  for  yourself.  I  know  at  a  pinch  I've  always 
done  the  thinking, —  from  the  first, —  but  a  man  can't 
always,  in  this  life.  You're  as  old  as  I  am,  anyhow, —  you 
might  jolly  well  take  your  turn.  .  .  .  This  is  a  pinch  we'd 
not  thought  of, —  you  don't  suppose  I'd  planned  it,  do 
you  ?  Very  well  then,  think  for  yourself."  He  flung  his 
books  aside,  clearing  a  space  before  him.  "  And  think  for 
me  a  bit,  if  you're  capable  of  it,"  he  added  lower,  "  and  if 
you're  not  altogether  lost  to  —  to  decency,  think  for  her." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Very  well,  I  will  not  tell  her  any- 
thing, at  least  till  to-morrow,"  said  Ursula, —  kindly. 
Clearly,  she  intended  to  be  kind.  She  added  as  she 
turned  to  go  — "  But  I  can't  prevent  her  thinking  it  rather 
—  odd." 

"  Oh  —  Lord !  "  murmured  Johnny.  Planting  his  el- 
bows on  the  cleared  space  on  the  table,  he  had  dropped 
his  head,  as  though  in  utter  boredom,  on  his  hands. 

"  I  mean,"  Ursula  pushed  on,  "  I  shall  have  to  tell  her 
something  about  you, —  invent  something, —  what  shall 


STRETTO  365 

"  Nothing,"  he  flashed  in  a  kind  of  horror,  lifting  his 
head.  "  Invent, —  you !  —  you're  safe  to  make  a  mess  of 
it.  ...  Say  nothing  to  her,  for  God's  sake.  Let  her 
alone." 

Ursula  said  nothing  to  Helena.  It  was  not  hard  to 
avoid  confidence,  since  she  did  not  care  for  her  much,  and 
only  now  and  then,  in  rushes,  felt  amazingly  small  and 
mean  under  her  eyes.  She  left  it  entirely  till  the  Sunday, 
trusting  the  servants  and  people  would  be  silent,  and 
rather  thinking,  somehow,  that  they  would.  Silence,  a 
cloak  of  silence,  fell  about  Johnny.  All  his  retainers,  with 
one  accdrd,  formed  the  ring.  That  they  knew,  to  the 
youngest  of  them,  Ursula  had  little  doubt, —  anyhow, 
Blandy  had  been  at  the  station. 

Besides,  messages  and  communications,  by  hand,  rail  or 
wire,  rained  on  the  house  all  day.  Ursula  was  puzzled 
how  so  many  people  could  have  heard,  but  supposed  it  had 
been  in  the  London  extra  editions.  Everybody  wrote  to 
John, —  his  immense  circle  of  friends,  men  and  women, 
young  and  old,  famous  and  the  reverse,  seemed  to  have 
been  waiting  for  the  chance.  Ursula  saw  his  father's 
writing,  Jem  Hertford's,  young  Lord  Bering's:  the  re- 
markable hand  of  his  mother's  doctor,  and  the  still  more 
singular  screed  of  Mr.  Quarle,  the  brutal  painter,  who  had 
produced  the  so-called  portrait  of  her  husband  at  the  Hall : 
Violet,  of  course,  the  eternally  youthful  Mrs.  Clewer, 
Lady  Ruabon,  who  at  forty-five  made  no  secret  of  her  de- 
votion to  him,  and  Barbara  Weyburn,  a  girl  of  twenty- 
one.  Even  the  Mitchell  woman, —  even  poor  old  Miss 
Darcy, —  she  recognized  them  all  before  Blandy,  deft  and 
silent,  swept  them  up  and  carried  them  out  of  sight.  All 
those  people  thought  it  was  a  special  occasion  to  com- 
miserate, evidently:  John's  own  father  did, —  she  was  a 
little  astonished  he  should  write.  But  then  there  were 
directions  to  be  given,  no  doubt, —  times  and  places  for  the 
ceremony, —  things  Ursula  also  needed  to  know.  But  she 


366  THE  ACCOLADE 

dared  not  go  to  the  Lyke-wood  house  again :  even  her  cold 
courage  failed  her.  She  waited,  expecting  him  to  turn  up, 
to  stroll  in  any  time,  having  thought  better  of  it :  having 
decided,  all  the  same  to  amuse  himself  with  a  pretty  girl, 
as  it  had  always  been  his  strict  habit  to  do,  till  now.  Why, 
his  duties  as  host  to  a  man  she  had  never  known  him  fail 
at  any  point,  till  now.  John's  hospitality  was  part  of  him, 
she  had  always  counted  on  it  without  a  thought, —  even 
counted  on  his  relieving  her  of  many  of  her  just  duties. 
But  no  sign,  no  sound :  it  might  have  been  his  corpse  — 
the  thought  came  to  her  once,  crossing  near  the  entrance  to 
the  wood  —  that  lay  down  there. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  she  took  her  resolu- 
tion, and  told  Harold,  not  Helena.  She  found  it  easier. 
Harold  was  shocked.  Really,  the  children  had  excellent 
manners,  considering  all  things, —  their  mother,  for  in- 
stance. Harold  put  his  sympathy  in  the  neatest  and  light- 
est form  possible,  for  Mrs.  Ingestre's  ear  —  exactly  fitted 
to  Ursula's  degree  of  grief,  as  it  happened :  and  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  tell  his  sister  on  the  spot,  so  that  they  might 
move  to  the  inn. 

"  Please  don't  trouble,  Mr.  Falkland,"  said  Ursula. 
After  a  few  more  well-chosen  speeches,  she  added.  "  It's 
quite  a  consolation,  in  a  way,  to  have  you:  especially 
your  sister, —  she's  so  sweet." 

Well,  so  she  was.  That  was  not  pure  invention,  lying, 
—  really  it  was  not.  There  was  something  in  her  manner 
and  appearance,  her  tranquil  little  way  of  occupying  her- 
self about  the  Routhwick  rooms,  her  friendship  with 
John's  dogs,  her  easy  enjoyment  of  everything,  the  coun- 
try above  all, — that  soothed  Ursula's  sore  and  embittered 
feelings.  No  one  could  be  rude  or  peevish  to  Helena,  any- 
how, however  one  might  wish  her  away.  It  was  not  a 
question  of  appearance  either,  it  was  apart  from  it,  just 
behind  her  appearance  as  it  were.  But  even  her  good 
looks  Ursula  admitted,  quite  readily,  as  she  had  always 


STRETTO  367 

done,  even  to  John.  Her  eyes,  which  seemed  always  to  be 
watching,  drooping  to  pensiveness,  or  leveled,  intent,  were 
the  blue-gray  Rossetti  dreamed  of.  The  constant  breezes 
and  draughts  of  the  place  —  even  Ursula  was  "  rough- 
haired  "  at  Routhwick  —  ruffled  all  her  little  gold-dust 
curls.  The  pearl-tints  of  her  skin  seemed  to  have  gained, 
rather  than  lost,  by  three  weeks'  reckless  exposure  to  rain 
and  wind.  Three  weeks  of  sun,  Mrs.  Ingestre  privately 
decided,  would  have  freckled  her ;  but  then,  as  Helena  had 
been  driven  to  grant,  smiling,  that  walking  party  in  the 
Lake  District  had  had  "  practically  "  no  sun  at  all. 

"  I  say,  Helena,"  said  Harold.  "  Ingestre's  lost  his 
mother, —  did  you  know  ?  " 

He  had  taken  her  arm,  just  for  safety,  as  he  came  up  to 
where  she  stood,  beside  the  long  flower-bed  in  the  kitchen- 
garden. 

Routhwick  territory,  it  should  be  said,  was  chiefly 
kitchen-garden.  Ursula  had  again  and  again  impressed 
upon  John,  since  he  had  to  be  there  so  often,  the  desira- 
bility of  "  laying  out "  the  place,  so  as  to  bring  it  at  least 
into  tolerable  rivalry  with  the  Hall.  Nothing  was  really 
wanting  to  do  it, —  certainly  not  money  in  John's  pocket, 
nor  time  on  his  hands :  nor  taste,  if  one  came  to  that,  nor 
soil,  nor  even  climate,  since  the  huddled  and  gnarled  trees 
of  the  Lykewood,  curled  into  grotesque  deformity  by  cen- 
turies of  western  gales,  successfully  protected  the  home 
demesne.  But  John  only  laughed,  and  told  her  to  let 
Routhwick  alone,  it  was  better  as  it  was :  it  had  always 
been  like  that.  Granted  the  kitchen  was  the  best  room  in 
the  house,  and  carrots  and  cabbages  the  principal  products 
of  its  terraces.  But  the  kitchen  was  ripping  —  no  other 
word  for  it:  and  carrots  and  cabbages,  if  Ursula  took  the 
trouble  to  look  at  them,  were  jolly  nice  things.  Quite  as 
delicate,  the  one,  as  the  rotten  maidenhairs  in  the  green- 
house called  his  mother's  at  the  Hall :  and  a  long  way 
more  beautiful,  the  other,  than  his  father's  everlasting 


368  THE  ACCOLADE 

orchids.  And  if  she  would  go  and  look  at  one  purple 
cabbage  he  had  in  mind  —  latitude  and  longitude  carefully 
provided  —  she  would  see. 

For  all  that,  the  long  flower-border  in  the  walled  garden 
was  beautiful,  in  September  above  all.  They  were  the 
range  of  colors  that  before  all  others  Johnny  adored, 
those  early  autumn  shades.  Late  summer,  they  were  of 
course,  at  Routhwick :  everything  there  was  late.  There 
were  even  tall  lilies  still,  of  some  late-flowering  species, 
taller  than  any  Helena  had  ever  seen:  pallid  pillars  of 
greenish-white,  among  the  revel  of  pinks  and  purples, 
orange-tawny  and  delicate  mauve.  She  could  almost  look 
into  the  white  lilies'  faces, —  with  a  little  stoop  she  really 
could. 

She  was  so  stooping  when  Harold  came  to  her,  but  he 
drew  her  upright.  He  knew,  good  brother  that  he  was, 
that  the  thing  was  serious,  or  might  be  so  for  her.  That 
was  why  he  came  to  her  promptly,  no  delay.  He  could  not 
deceive  himself,  like  Ursula,  though  he  would  have  been 
just  as  glad  as  Ursula  to  be  deceived. 

And  she  winced  at  his  words, —  she  drew  back  her 
beautiful  head  and  shut  her  eyes  as  that  truth,  already 
half-divined,  went  home.  Just  like  the  lilies,  she  was  at 
that  moment,  and  pale  as  they.  She  could  not  have  turned 
much  paler,  she  had  been  beating  her  brains  against  cir- 
cumstance, the  last  twelve  hours,  too  much. 

"  All  right,  dear,"  she  said.  "  We  must  go,  of  course. 
Have  you  packed  ?  " 

"  I  told  her  so, —  she  won't  have  it,"  said  Harold. 
"  She  puts  me  off  with  talking,  every  time.  But  I'll  make 
her,"  he  added  deliberately,  "  if  you  want." 

Want?  What  did  she  want?  What  —  it  was  inevit- 
able —  did  he  want  her  to  do  ?  Her  thoughts,  the  winged 
shadow-thoughts  of  youth,  swept  the  whole  horizon, 
flickered  over  the  whole  heaven  of  feeling,  during  the  few 
frightened  minutes  while  she  took  it  in. 

First,  and  strangely,  the  conviction  crossed  her  that  it 


STRETTO  369 

was  over,  all  over,  finished  for  her:  that  his  mother's 
noble  spirit  had  chosen  this  fashion  to  banish  her  utterly, 
knowing  that  by  her  approach,  by  her  existence  even,  she 
was  causing  him  suffering,  doing  him  harm.  It  was  the 
conviction  of  being  completely  cut  off,  crushed  like  a  leaf 
by  the  calamity  that  had  wounded  him,  that  had  turned 
Helena  white.  She  could  do  nothing, —  nothing.  She 
counted  for  nothing  to  all  eternity.  All  was  at  an  end. 

Then  her  mortal  womanhood  revolted,  gave  it  the  lie. 
How  could  she  not  serve,  since  he  wanted  her  ?  His  eyes 
had  already  informed  her  of  that,  and  now  —  how  much 
more!  The  sure  instinct  to  help  came  with  the  sure 
divination  of  his  greater  need.  Whither  could  this  new 
star  she  followed,  this  later  duty,  the  truth  for  which  he 
once  had  blessed  her,  lead  but  to  his  side? 

The  strife  of  new  right  and  old  right  for  the  moment  in 
the  girl  was  frightful,  seemed  to  clutch  at  the  very  founda- 
tions of  her  life.  Then  character  triumphed,  as  character 
always  does,  and  her  sweet  serenity  flowed  back.  Noth- 
ing mattered,  nothing  could  go  really  wrong,  since  he  was 
there. 

Where  he  was,  Helena  knew  with  a  natural  under- 
standing that  would  have  put  Ursula  to  shame.  True  as 
a  dog's  eyes,  hers  had  turned,  as  soon  as  her  brother 
informed  her,  in  the  direction  of  the  Lyke-wood  house. 
Where  should  he  be,  in  the  wide  domain  of  Routhwick, 
but  there,  in  the  spot  where  his  mother's  spirit,  and  the 
spirit  of  his  own  childhood,  permanently  dwelt  ? 

Helena  knew  all  about  that  little  camp  of  his,  though 
she  had  never  seen  it.  She  knew  the  books  on  which  it 
had  been  founded,  as  well.  A  log-house,  with  a  pine- 
wood  stockade,  loop-holes  in  the  log-walls,  even  a  private 
well  of  water, —  what  happy  English  child  does  not  know 
those  things  by  heart?  Child  as  she  was  still  in  mind, 
Helena  had  longed,  in  sheer  joyful  curiosity,  to  see  it,  ask 
him  about  it,  hear  him  explain  its  curious  defenses  to 
her, —  with  his  hand  under  her  bent  arm  as  she  stood  close 


370  THE  ACCOLADE 

to  him, —  all  in  mightily  solemn  jest.  He  had  been  used 
to  entrench  himself  there  in  youth,  so  he  had  informed 
her :  once,  with  his  mother's  hardly  wrung  permission,  for 
the  whole  of  a  summer  night.  John,  aged  twelve,  had 
held  the  log-house,  she  could  guess  with  what  breathless 
delight,  from  dusk  to  dawn:  against  imaginary  enemies, 
truly,  but  what  was  that?  It  remained  his  own  place,  by 
the  lasting  right  of  childhood:  and  it  was  necessary  for 
his  own  people,  who  came  there  in  the  true  spirit,  to  look 
at  it  through  his  eyes. 

Well  then,  being  there,  he  would  show  her  the  rest  as 
well.  She  had  but  to  let  him  lead,  watch  him  and  follow : 
his  leading  could  not  be  wrong.  And  first  and  foremost, 
said  all  the  Falkland  instincts,  she  must  not  run  away. 

Helena,  having  drawn  breath,  and  stated  her  decision, 
looked  at  Harold.  Harold,  of  course,  was  steadily  gazing 
away. 

"  Ingestre's  in  London,  probably,"  he  said  with  a  fixed 
gravity.  "  She  didn't  say  so, —  takes  for  granted  we 
should  understand.  So  I  did,  of  course.  It's  natural  he 
should  forget  everything  in  the  circumstances, —  things 
like  us,  I  mean." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Helena,  and  kissed  him.  She  did  not 
often  do  that. 

Rescue!  —  thought  Harold:  if  Auberon  would  only 
come!  He  had  a  mind  to  telegraph  to  Auberon,  if  only 
for  counsel  and  consolation.  He  might  come  alongside 
anyhow,  back  Harold  up.  Then  anew,  glancing  at  his  sis- 
ter's pale  face,  he  had  to  abandon  the  idea. 

Instead,  Harold  took  her  arm  in  a  comforting  manner. 

"  Now  come  a  walk  with  me  up  that  hill,"  he  suggested. 
"  It's  a  good  hill,  and  we've  not  been  there.  The  chances 
are  we  see  Ingleborough  from  the  top.  If  you  don't  come 
now,  Mrs.  Ingestre  will  catch  us  for  church,  and 
that " 

Helena  agreed  with  him.     Church  was  not  what  she 


STRETTO  371 

wanted,    either.     And  —  well  —  anyhow    she    had    been 
there  in  the  morning,  that  was  once. 


IV 

The  first  night  was  bad,  for  Johnny :  the  second  night 
was  worse.  He  all  but  gave  way,  at  one  frightful  mo- 
ment of  suffering,  towards  ten  o'clock. 

His  trouble  was,  that  one  word  would  call  her  to  him. 
He  knew  that.  The  word  was  written  on  a  scrap  of  paper 
before  him,  and  he  had  but  to  send  it,  by  any  one  of  his 
innumerable  trusted  hands.  The  service  that  Johnny  had 
earned  by  sane  command  as  true  service :  they  would 
none  of  them  blame  him,  his  men,  nor  would  they 
talk.  A  breath  would  bring  her  to  him,  the  breath  of  his 
royal  wish.  So  near,  so  easy, —  so  utterly  beyond  his 
reach. 

He  could  not  doubt  she  would  come,  eyes  closed,  he  had 
never  doubted  it.  Doubt  was  a  wrong  to  her,  in  his  view. 
And  once  there,  at  his  side,  under  his  eyes, —  he  need  not 
look  beyond.  Sufficient  for  the  golden  moment,  that 
would  be :  all-sufficient  for  eternity,  surely.  He  lifted  his 
eyes  to  his  mother's  face  on  the  wall.  She  would  not 
reproach  him  now.  How  could  she?  She  had  only  seen 
half,  on  earth,  as  the  best  women  can  only  see.  She  knew 
more  now, —  why,  she  had  guesed  it  previously.  She 
must  have  guessed,  being  his  mother,  a  man's  mother. 
Now  she  knew  the  other  half  presumably, —  she  had  at 
least  deserved  it,  by  her  valiant  life.  It  was  a  cruel  thing, 
the  battle  on  earth  of  man  and  woman, —  it  was  not  a  fair 
thing,  for  either,  such  pain,  such  deception  in  one  another 
constantly,  even  the  best.  Mother  and  son,  father  and 
daughter,  husband  and  wife, —  but  not  when  a  man  and 
woman  really  loved.  That  was  the  exception,  the  truce 
granted  by  the  gods.  He  had  come  near  to  an  equal  un- 
derstanding with  his  mother, —  well,  he  and  Helena  could 


372  THE  ACCOLADE 

complete  that  perfect  round.  The  divine  right  of  love 
was  theirs.  He  alone  had  enough,  quite  enough,  to  float 
that  little  girl's  world  away,  carry  it  to  the  safe  harbor 
where  he  would  place  her,  his  prize,  his  golden  fleece, 
beyond  the  harming  of  the  crowd. 

Could  he?  Could  he  save  her?  That  was  what  they 
had  all  found  so  hard.  He  looked  at  the  pile  of  his 
writing  on  the  table:  that  ancestor  of  his,  in  whose  per- 
sonality he  had  immersed  himself  willingly,  had  had  some 
of  these  feelings  too.  He  had  suffered  one  tremendous 
tide  of  passion,  rising  very  clearly  to  his  descendant's  eyes 
in  those  ancient  crabbed  letters,  which  had  broken  against 
the  walls  of  convention,  breached  them  as  the  raging 
Mule  had  breached  the  bridge.  And  what  had  happened 
later  ?  Well,  the  raging  tide  had  sunk  again,  and  a  thou- 
sand hands  had  patiently  rebuilt  the  barrier,  calling  upon 
their  various  gods  or  idols  to  bless  the  work. 

Traitors, —  his  enemies, —  how  he  loathed  them  all ! 

He  looked  down  at  the  Marechale's  portrait,  and  his 
face  softened  slightly,  for  he  thought  of  Violet  at  once: 
he  always  did,  seeing  that  painting.  Something  in  the 
turn  of  head  and  neck  was  like  her,  some  flicker  of  quaint 
character  persisting  in  the  lashes  and  the  lips.  He  gave 
her  a  kindly  thought,  hoped  she  would  get  through,  before 
he  recurred  to  his  ancestor  and  the  origin  of  the  picture 
again.  He  read  through  some  of  the  pages  of  his  chron- 
icle —  fair,  he  trusted  he  had  been  fair.  The  woman  was 
probably  not  worth  one  tithe  of  the  feeling  that  had  been 
spent  on  her, —  only  he  had  no  means  of  knowing  the 
other  side.  Her  letters,  though  her  remarks  were  often 
quoted  and  referred  to,  were  missing  from  his  bordereau. 
Perhaps, —  he  half  smiled  at  the  thought, —  she  could  not 
write.  She  was  a  little  nobody,  in  origin,  only  she  made 
men  mad  about  her,  she  had  that  gift.  Helena,  thank 
Heaven,  was*  not  that  sort.  She  did  not  keep  her  dis- 
tance, and  smile  across  her  shoulder,  tempting  those  who 
passed.  She  met  you  fully,  fairly, —  and  modestly.  Few 


STRETTO  373 

girls  could  find  that  happy  mean.  But  no  girl  had  ever 
matched  her.  Helena  was  divine. 

So  young  too.  Young,  and  his  youth  was  going.  He 
felt  it  slipping  from  him  in  these  wearing  nights  of  pain. 
His  chance  was  going  with  her,  his  last  chance.  For  he 
could  never  look  at  a  second-best  after  her,  that  Johnny 
knew  would  be  impossible.  She  stated  all  others  of  her 
kind,  so  extraordinarily.  If  he  ever  felt  himself  slipping, 
he  must  slay  himself,  surely,  sooner  than  that.  His 
mother  would  grant  him  license  there  to  break  his  word. 
He  knew  his  own  weaknesses,  and  the  weaknesses  of  his 
race  as  well.  But  he  had  been  privileged  by  his  artist- 
birth  to  know  the  best,  meet  it  before  his  own  best  man- 
hood had  weakened ;  and  since  it  had  been  so  granted  him, 
he  must  never  get  beyond  it.  That  was  why  he  met  the 
grinding  torment  of  these  two  nights  open-armed.  Let  it 
come,  since  it  was  in  her  honor,  all  of  it:  sear  him,  scar 
him,  mark  him  as  hers  alone.  And  let  him  never  lose 
those  marks  while  he  lived,  nor  beyond  death,  he  trusted. 

Ursula  he  never  thought  of, —  for  the  time  he  let  her  be. 
Ursula  and  Helena,  one  could  not  look  at  both  of  them, 
it  was  useless.  Young  and  glorious  and  kind,  consoling, 
condescending, —  yes,  comprehending  in  every  look  and 
accent:  softening  when  he  softened,  smiling  when  he 
smiled,  shadowing  to  his  gravity,  ringing  true  to  every 
testing  touch, —  except  that  he  had  long  stopped  testing, 
since  he  knew  her:  that  was  Helena, —  Rosalind,  it  was 
the  same.  Rosalind  to  his  senses  she  had  always  been. 
Perhaps  she  existed  because  that  crabbed  old  Shakespeare 
had  first  conceived  her.  Or  else  she  had  always  existed, 
that  was  better  still.  She  was  a  spirit,  a  light  of  the  earth, 
the  English  earth, —  ah,  no,  she  was  not!  She  was  no 
spirit, —  infinitely  better,  a  beautiful  warm  frame  of  girl- 
hood. .  .  .  Useless,  he  could  not  do  it :  he  must  give  in. 

He  did  not  give  in:  the  summoning  word  was  never 
sent.  Perhaps  he  knew  in  his  heart  the  whole  time  he 
could  not  send  it ;  that  his  treasure  was  sealed.  He  wore 


374  THE  ACCOLADE 

through  the  weary  hours  to  midnight  somehow.  Towards 
midnight,  he  took  his  pen  again,  and  wrote  on  rather 
dreamily,  a  little  chapter.  It  might  or  might  not  go  into 
the  book, —  he  thought  it  was  truth  in  its  way, —  Violet 
would  tell  him  if  he  asked.  Her  judgment  was  sufficient, 
and  she  was  a  woman,  luckily ; —  though  of  course  it  was 
always  possible  that  the  stuff  he  wrote  at  midnight  would 
not  bear  the  light  of  day.  She  —  Helena  —  would  not 
read  the  book, —  she  never  read  books  like  this.  He  did 
not  want  her  to,  specially :  unless  some  day  when  he  was 
dead,  when  she  was  old,  a  grandmother, —  then  she  might 
be  allowed,  perhaps.  Her  —  well,  her  husband  could 
decide. 

He  stopped  writing  of  a  sudden,  lifted  his  head,  and 
sat  motionless.  His  quick  ear  had  caught  a  sound.  He 
heard,  or  thought  he  heard,  the  clink  of  the  little  iron  gate 
which,  at  the  wood's  outer  extremity,  gave  upon  the  road. 
He  sat,  every  sense  on  the  alert.  There  was  a  step,  no 
doubt  of  it,  approaching  rather  cautiously  through  the 
wood. 

It  was  after  twelve,  and  he  had  no  dogs  with  him :  but 
Johnny  was  not  easily  deranged,  in  life,  and  rather  wel- 
comed occurrences  ;  more  especially  at  this  moment,  being 
heartily  sick  of  his  own  company.  Anything,  even  a 
poaching  tramp,  was  better  than  that.  A  pirate  would 
have  been  far  better.  His  namesake  Silver  with  the 
timber  leg  would  have  been  received,  cutlass  and  all,  with 
enthusiasm.  But  there  was  small  hope  of  it.  Caution, 
even  extreme  caution,  in  coming  through  the  Lyke-wood, 
did  not  necessarily  imply  an  evil-doer,  it  was  imposed  by 
the  Lykewood's  peculiarities  upon  the  simplest  citizen. 
To-night  there  was  a  moon,  Johnny  believed :  he  had  not 
looked  out  to  see,  being  otherwise  occupied.  But  a  moon 
made  the  place  worse,  if  anything,  since  the  shadows  of 
the  branches  imitated  the  roots  of  the  trees.  Further,  the 
immediate  defenses  of  the  log-house,  contrived  when  John 
was  twelve  years  old,  but  not  quite  devoid  of  the  subtlety 


STRETTO  375 

of  his  maturer  genius,  though  now  a  little  decayed  and 
overgrown,  made  the  approach  to  his  camp,  as  he  would 
have  said,  "  no  fun."  It  was  not  only  visionary  pirates 
who  might  easily  get  a  broken  head  or  ankle  for  their 
pains.  Taking  all  things  together,  having  listened  a 
minute,  the  master  of  the  log-house  rose,  and  lamp 
in  hand,  went  to  the  door  to  throw  light  on  the  situ- 
ation. 

In  the  period  of  his  great-grandfather's  great-uncle,  this 
would  have  been  distinctly  a  rash  proceeding,  since  any 
lurking  enemy  or  rival  could  have  shot  him,  full-lighted, 
where  he  stood  at  the  door.  But  Johnny  rather  thought, 
for  the  moment,  no  one  would  be  kind  enough  to  shoot 
him :  that  was  a  little  too  much  to  ask.  He  held  the  lamp 
high,  frowning  into  the  obscurity. 

"  Who's  there  ?  "  he  challenged,  in  his  low  carrying  tone, 
—  what  Fanny  called  his  "  pretty "  voice,  which  could 
have  been  heard  with  ease  to  the  wood's  other  extremity. 
"  Speak  up,  whoever  you  are,  or  else  clear  out." 

"  Thanks,"  said  a  rather  tired  voice  out  of  the  furthest 
gloom :  no  more. 

John's  strained  face  under  the  lamp-light  changed  oddly, 
— anyone  would  have  said  to  pure  relief.  Likewise  his 
manner  changed,  on  the  instant,  though  he  pitched  his 
voice  to  carry  still. 

"  Stretto,"  he  politely  addressed  a  shadowy  broad- 
shouldered  form,  just  visible  against  the  faint  light  of  the 
sky  in  the  wood's  opening.  "  By  which  I  mean,  look  out 
for  the  stockade.  That's  the  entrance  where  I'm  light- 
ing,—  catch  on  the  inner  side  of  the  gatepost, —  got  it  ?  — 
good.  Now  come  straight  up  the  track  I'm  making,  and 
you'll  be  clear  of  the  snags,  not  to  say  snares.  They're 
tolerably  guileful,  some  of  them,  though  I  say  it  that 
should  not."  He  watched  his  visitor  past  the  last  de- 
fenses before  he  spoke  again,  in  his  ordinary  careless 
voice.  "  Not  but  what  I  was  expecting  you,  generally 
speaking.  Only  not  just  at  midnight  —  my  mistake." 


376  THE  ACCOLADE 

He  lowered  his  lamp-torch  on  the  words,  and  Quentin, 
slightly  smiling,  came  into  the  illuminated  ring. 

"  Thanks,'*  he  said  simply  again.  "  You  seem  to  be 
well-defended  in  these  parts.  I'd  begun  to  think  I'd  got 
wrong,  since  I  asked  for  Routhwick.  The  people  at  the 
inn  said  I  should  find  you,  though,  so  I  chanced  it,  and 
risked  the  short  cut.  Fact  is,  I've  had  a  fair  day  of  it, 
first  and  last.  Can  I  come  in  ?  " 

Quentin  did  not  mention  that  the  people  at  the  inn  had 
told  him  he  would  find  Mr.  John  in  a  singular  manner,  as 
though  Mr.  John  were  something  fine  and  precious,  his 
presence  on  the  parental  estate  a  secret  to  be  withheld, 
and  his  person  at  all  costs  shielded  from  the  profane. 
Quentin,  not  having  heard  of  Mrs.  Ingestre's  death,  had 
laid  it  to  the  habitual  Yorkshire  caution, — one  never  got 
a  question  answered  here  without  reservation,  and  a  cer- 
tain suspicion  of  the  questioner  as  well.  Beyond  that,  he 
was  not  inquisitive,  and  had  been  too  tired  to  trouble 
about  the  matter.  He  had,  of  course,  by  some  means  to 
see  Ingestre. 

Now,  here  he  was,  much  as  usual,  with  no  especially 
alarming  attributes  of  dignity, —  not  even  dressed, —  and 
what  was  far  better,  with  no  women  about  him.  To  get 
at  Ingestre  without  having  to  fight  past  Mrs.  Ingestre  and 
a  flock  of  ladies  was  almost  more  than  Quentin  had  hoped, 
shooting  him  thus  at  random,  as  he  had  been  practically 
obliged  on  a  Sunday  to  do.  He  would  have  faced  any 
number  of  pirates,  like  Johnny,  sooner  than  the  civilities 
of  a  country-house  drawing-room  to-night.  He  had  come 
up  late  on  the  chance,  trusting  the  ladies  of  the  house 
would  be  in  bed,  but  one  never  knew.  He  had  been 
enabled,  during  the  latter  part  of  his  day's  work,  to  make  a 
fair  shot  at  the  Routhwick  influence,  not  to  say  the  Routh- 
wick revenue ;  and  he  could  hardly  gauge,  with  his  limited 
experience  of  smart  society,  what  the  corresponding 
Routhwick  habits  might  not  be.  He  was  prepared  for 
anything. 


STRETTO  377 

Now,  glancing  about  the  quaint  little  quarters,  so 
eccentrically  guarded,  to  which  John  introduced  him, — 
the  white  wood  walls,  the  smoke  in  the  air,  the  skins  on 
the  floor,  the  confusion  of  books  and  papers  on  the  table, 
not  a  whiff  of  femininity  anywhere  to  be  detected, —  his 
relief  was  the  greater.  Relief  spoke  in  his  face  as  clearly 
as  in  Johnny's.  They  were  both  purely  thankful  to  find 
one  another,  to  join  forces  over  a  problem  that  had  become 
too  much  for  either  singly:  and  the  eyes  of  both,  when 
they  met  in  the  fuller  light,  declared  it. 

"  This  is  Routhwick,  more  or  less,"  said  John.  "  It's 
my  department.  Sit  down."  He  swung  a  basket-chair 
round  in  front  of  the  fire.  It  was  ages  since  he  had  had  a 
guest  at  the  log-house,  but  luckily  there  was  a  chair.  He 
was  propelling  the  guest  with  one  hand  towards  it,  when 
he  withdrew  the  hand  with  an  exclamation.  "  I  say, — 
you're  wet." 

"  I'm  beastly  sorry,"  said  Quentin.  "  Shall  I  spoil  your 
things  ?  I  came  across  the  stream." 

"  What  ?  "  gasped  Johnny. 

"  Forded  it  —  last  night, —  excuse  me."  He  dropped 
into  the  chair,  leaning  back. 

After  an  interval  John,  who  still  held  the  lamp,  im- 
planted it  carefully.  "You  forded  the  Mule?"  he  re- 
peated. "  You  couldn't." 

"  I  did,  somehow :  don't  ask.  It  was  not  a  first-class 
exhibition.  The  water's  gone  down  a  bit,  and  I  found  an 
easy  place.  I  was  washed  down  a  bit  in  the  deepest  part, 
but  as  you  see,  I  wasn't  drowned." 

"Where?"  said  Johnny. 

"  Not  far  from  here."  Being  close  pressed,  Quentin 
told  him  exactly  where,  and  it  was  the  only  possible  place 
for  miles,  both  ways.  Consequently,  Quentin  was  not 
"  having  him  on,"  but  stating  fact.  At  least,  unless  he 
were  a  very,  very  accomplished  liar,  with  which  talent, 
somehow,  Johnny  did  not  credit  him. 

"  I've  been  knocking  about  since,"  he  added  to  his 


378  THE  ACCOLADE 

description,  brushing  some  of  the  Lyke-wood  mosses  off 
his  sleeve,  "  and  I  stuck  at  the  inn  for  a  time,  so  I  dried. 
No  harm  in  a  fire,  though."  This  last  was  a  tribute  to 
Johnny's  camp-grate,  which  his  eyes  profoundly  ap- 
proved. 

"Why?"  said  Johnny.  He  subsided  into  his  own 
chair,  to  attend. 

"  Why  I  forded  it?  Because  I  had  to.  I  came  across 
country  from  Kendal  this  morning,  you  see;  and  having 
the  map,  I  didn't  enquire.  I'd  better  have  enquired,  for 
the  map  deluded  me.  There  was  a  road  all  right, —  but 
there  wasn't  a  bridge." 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.  "  There's  not  been  for  forty-eight 
hours.  But  you  —  er  —  might  have  gone  round." 

"  I  hate  going  round,"  said  Quentin.  "  I'm  sick  of  it." 
He  leant  to  the  fire,  elbow  on  knee. 

"  So  do  I,"  his  host  admitted.  He  recollected  his  own 
feat  of  audacity,  which  had  startled  Ursula,  and  had  to 
admit  he  was  beaten.  This  was  better, —  it  was  even  jolly 
good.  And  on  top  of  a  walk  from  Kendal,  five-and- 
twenty  —  thirty  miles,  it  must  be  that.  He  tried  to 
reckon,  but  his  eyes  were  on  the  boy.  It  needed  an  ex- 
planation, a  human  explanation,  above  and  beyond  mere 
recklessness  and  record-breaking.  He  examined  Quentin 
curiously  and  cautiously. 

"  Great  Scott,"  he  commented  privately,  "  what  a  rage 
the  man  was  in ! " 

And  he  had  been,  obviously :  he  saw  the  embers  of  it, 
even  now.  He  had  been  furious  with  that  lame  girl,  for 
putting  him  in  the  wrong  so  completely.  Well,  so  he 
ought  to  be, —  most  healthy  and  natural, —  Johnny  ad- 
mired it.  Granted  the  man's  unheard-of  situation, —  al- 
ways supposing  the  tragedy  the  journal  hinted  at  were  a 
fact, —  Johnny  would  have  felt,  or  tried  to  feel,  the  same. 
He  would  not  have  forded  the  Mule  in  September, 
though, —  he  would  have  stopped  at  that.  But  then,  he 
knew  the  Mule's  tricks, — Quentin  did  not.  He  was  fool- 


STRETTO  379 

hardy  and  rough-haired,  and  took  such  risks  in  ignorance. 
Silly  young  ass ! 

Johnny  got  up  after  an  interval,  and  went  to  a  cupboard. 
"  Here,  drink  this,"  he  directed.  "  My  department  can 
rise  to  whisky,  4anyhow.  You  must  be  —  er  —  pretty 
tired." 

"  I'm  all  right,"  said  Quentin :  but  he  drank  it.  He  also 
sat  for  some  time  silent  by  the  fire,  his  host  taking  stock  of 
him  with  constantly  renewed  interest,  his  fine  limbs,  splen- 
did shoulders,  the  shape  of  his  bent  head.  He  might  not 
know  the  complete  case  for  tragedy  John  was  withhold- 
ing, but  he  suspected  it, —  part  of  it, —  oh,  yes!  The 
attitude  reminded  him  of  some  statue,  one  of  the  innumer- 
able exhausted  runners,  or  stricken  warriors,  of  Greek 
art.  .  .  .  Young  huntsman,  not  captured  yet !  He  would 
not  be,  if  he  could  help  it.  He  was  fighting  the  toils,  the 
fine  invisible  meshes  thrown  after  him,  almost  visibly. 
He  was  indignant,  still,  that  any  had  dared  approach. 
That  was  why  he  had  burst  through  the  stream.  He 
had  the  water,  the  woodland  green,  still  on  him.  .  .  . 
Johnny's  mind  ran  back  to  the  classics,  to  antiquity.  They 
were  needed,  somehow,  in  the  case. 

"  J°Uy  good  thing  you're  not  dead,"  moralized  Johnny, 
having  thought  it  over,  by  degrees,  with  the  aid  of  his 
eyes.  "Isn't  it?" 

"  It  might  be  argued,"  said  Quentin,  moving. 

"  Think  they'd  have  missed  you  ?  " 

"  My  people,  you  mean  ?  Not  for  some  time, —  they're 
some  way  off." 

"I  mean  your  —  er  —  superiors.  Your  natural  direc- 
tors. All  the  people  you  habitually  obey." 

Quentin  paused, —  a  good  pause.  "  At  the  Office  ?  Oh 
—  no.  I  might  have  been  missed  for  forty-eight  hours, 
till  the  other  fellow  learned  his  work.  I  don't  suppose 
they'd  have  bothered  to  drag  the  stream  for  me."  He 
added  after  a  short  pause, — "  That's  what  you've  been 
engaged  in,  isn't  it?" 


380  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny.  "  Dash !  "  he  added  privately. 
This  was  exactly  what  he  had  intended  Auberon  not  to 
know.  There  was  no  object  in  his  knowing, —  at  present. 
There  might  never  be.  "  Think  it's  a  work  of  superero- 
gation ?  "  he  said  aloud. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Quentin.  "It's  better  to  be  on  the 
lookout."  He  resumed  his  stricken  hunter's  pose  above 
the  fire. 

A  bit  down-hearted,  evidently.  Johnny  wondered  what 
he  had  been  learning,  since  he  got  across  the  stream.  He 
was  abominably  acute,  no  doubt  of  it.  He  had  never  met 
so  incisive  an  intelligence.  It  seemed  to  strike  out  from 
every  look  and  word,  though  he  was  sparing,  by  nature,  of 
both.  Luckily,  John's  people  on  the  estate  were  sparing 
of  words  as  well;  they  did  not  like  talk  much,  both  by 
their  own  nature  and  his  training, —  knew  they  had  better 
not. 

"  You've  been  over  my  tracks,  then,"  he  said  easily. 
"Seen  Fox?" 

"  I  talked  a  bit  to  him,"  said  Quentin,  "  and  one  or  two 
of  the  farmers." 

Johnny's  dark  brows  met.  Fox  would  not  have  a  happy 
life,  if  he  had  been  gossiping.  Johnny  led  his  assistant 
on  the  estate  a  life  at  all  times,  which  probably  made  him 
sigh  for  the  serenity  of  a  Better  Land;  but  he  would 
cease  to  find  any  interest  in  existence  at  all,  if  he  had  been 
betraying  Johnny's  confidence. 

"  May  I  ask,"  he  said  politely,  "  when  the  deuce  you 
found  the  time?  I  can't  fit  it  into  the  day's  work  from 
Kendal,  somehow." 

"  Only  this  last  hour  or  two,"  said  Quentin.  "  Chiefly 
when  I  stuck  at  the  inn.  I  couldn't  do  much  till  I  had 
seen  you,  naturally." 

"  Ah, —  and  you  put  off  trying  to  see  me, —  till  now." 

"  I  did,  that's  the  fact.  You  see,  earlier  on,  I  thought 
you  couldn't  be  got  at.  Couldn't  make  out  what  they 
were  driving  at,  down  there.  I  nearly  settled  not  to  try  it, 


STRETTO  381 

till  the  morning.  It's  just  their  way  of  talking  put  me 
off." 

There  was  apology  perceptible  in  the  rough-haired 
visitor's  tone.  After  all,  one  could  not  tell  Ingestre  the 
secondary  reason,  or  arriere-pensee,  had  been  to  avoid  his 
wife.  It  is  possible  John  divined  the  secondary  reason  in 
the  silence  that  succeeded, —  since  he  had  once  or  twice 
noticed  Auberon  forbear,  with  Ursula.  Auberon  had  a 
manner  of  forbearance  which  was  slightly  conspicuous  to 
the  irreverent  outside  eye.  Johnny  had  had  to  suffer  it 
once  or  twice  himself.  When  he  did  answer,  it  was 
slowly. 

"  They're  a  good  lot,"  he  said,  "about  these  parts, 
—  extraordinarily  faithful.  They've  a  name  for  fidel- 
ity, but  it  is  a  fact.  What  they  were  driving  at,  and 
failed  to  say,  was  that  my  mother  died  in  London  on  Sat- 
urday. She  was  fairly  well  known  here,  some  time  back, 
and  it  was  feeling  for  her  —  as  much  as  me  —  accounts 
for  their  way  of  talking." 

The  basket-chair  creaked  as  Quentin  rose.  It  was  a 
good  rise,  too, —  all  in  one  piece,  for  all  his  weariness. 
The  soldier  in  him,  deep-rooted,  showed  at  that  instant. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Ingestre, —  I'd  no  notion.  I've  not  seen 
the  paper  for  days.  I  say,  why  the  deuce  didn't  you  turn 
me  out?  Crowding  you  up  like  this." 

"  Because  I  didn't  want  to.  I  like  to  be  crowded.  You 
sit  down."  John  turned,  and  their  eyes  battled  a  moment ; 
then  the  visitor  subsided  slowly  into  his  seat  again. 

"  I  could  go  to  the  house,"  he  reasoned.  "  Mrs. 
Ingestre " 

"Mrs.  Ingestre's  in  bed, —  what  d'you  take  her  for? 
She  goes  to  bed  sharp  at  ten  in  the  country,  like  all  decent 
people, —  making  up  the  season,  four  hours  a  night. 
What  did  you  come  at  such  a  time  for,  if  you  didn't  mean 
to  sleep  with  me  ?  " 

"  Here  ?  "  Quentin  was  taken  aback.  "  But  I  say,"— 
he  looked  round  him, — "  you  haven't  a  bed." 


382  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  There's  a  bed,"  said  Johnny. 

Quentin  looked  at  it.     "  That's  yours." 

"  I'm  not  using  it." 

Quentin  waited  anew,  to  take  it  in.  His  host  was  a 
remarkable  person.  But  then  he  had  gathered  that,  in  the 
course  of  his  late  investigations.  All  the  fellows  he  had 
come  across  spoke  of  Ingestre  in  the  same  —  what  one 
might  call  —  provisional  manner;  true,  that  is,  for  the 
time  being,  but  liable  to  be  upset  by  some  unforeseen  out- 
break in  their  subject  the  following  day.  At  present,  as 
it  appeared,  Ingestre  was  not  sleeping  anywhere,  accord- 
ing to  himself. 

"  I've  taken  a  bed  at  the  inn,"  he  remarked  gently,  hav- 
ing glanced  round  him  once. 

For  some  reason,  this  innocent  remark  proved  exas- 
perating. Mr.  Ingestre  had  been  sitting  with  one  elbow 
on  the  table,  smoking  in  elegant  ease.  Now  he  swung 
his  chair  round  to  face  Quentin,  removed  his  cigarette, 
and  said  in  succession  several  offensive  things.  He 
seemed  excited.  The  argument  appeared  to  be  —  so  far 
as  there  was  an  argument  —  that  since  Ingestre  had  put 
himself  out  for  three  days  past  to  do  Quentin's  work, 
and  had  spent  goodness  knew  how  much  money  and 
worry  in  the  process,  Quentin  himself  was  necessarily 
attached  to  Routhwick  from  the  moment  when  he  set 
foot  on  the  premises ;  and,  equally  from  that  moment, 
under  its  protection  —  and  its  direction  too. 

It  was  on  the  last  point,  needless  to  say,  that  Quentin 
differed.  He  did  not  mind  being  protected,  he  could 
stand  that.  Johnny  asked  him  if  he  saw,  during  his  dis- 
course, several  times,  but  that  point  he  failed  to  see. 
Johnny  said  they  might  do  things  differently  at  the  Board 
of  Trade  —  Quentin  corrected  him  —  but  hereabouts 
things  were  like  that, —  they  always  had  been.  Quentin 
was  hampered  by  laughter,  rather,  but  he  put  his  own 
views  competently,  all  the  same. 


STRETTO  383 

"  It's  my  concern,"  he  contended,  "  ours  anyhow. 
You've  no  right  to  bother  with  it  at  all,  really." 

"  I've  the  best  right,"  said  Johnny.  "  Morally  speak- 
ing, it  was  my  concern  as  much  as  yours.  More  so." 
He  proceeded  to  demonstrate  this.  "  I  ask  you  to  look 
at  that  bit  of  writing  I  sent  you."  (This  was  the  sum- 
mary of  the  evidence  that  exculpated  Jill,  contained  on 
the  last  page  of  her  journal,  which  Quentin  had  been  al- 
lowed to  see.)  "  Well  now, —  which  of  us  was  wrong?  " 
said  Johnny. 

"  I  was,"  said  Quentin  haughtily. 

"  Only  because  I  was,"  Johnny  pointed  out.  "  I  wrote 
you  out  my  ideas, —  in  a  railway-carriage, —  I  remember 
doing  it.  Well,  what  did  you  do?  You  merely  acted  on 
them ! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Quentin. 

"  You  did,"  said  Johnny.  "  And  they  were  wrong 
ideas.  See  ?  " 

"  You're  mistaken,"  said  Quentin.  "  What  I  acted  on 
was  my  own  observation." 

"  And  what's  the  good  of  that  ?  "  said  Johnny.  "  You 
don't  know  what  to  look  out  for.  Good  Lord, —  your 
observations  of  that  kind  finished  where  mine  began." 
The  discussion  was  pursued  on  these  lines  until  —  the 
visitor  being  unfairly  handicapped  by  politeness, — 
Johnny  proved  to  his  own  satisfaction  that,  morally 
speaking,  in  the  matter  of  Miss  Jacoby,  he  had  the  pull 
over  Auberon,  first  and  last.  Then  — 

"  Speaking  less  than  morally "  said  Quentin. 

"What's  that?"  said  Johnny.  "I  say,  you've  done 
enough  thinking  for  the  present,  strikes  me.  You  get  to 
bed." 

The  boy  had  blushed.  "  No,  really,  I'm  serious.  I 
retain  responsibility,  Ingestre,  I'm  afraid." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Meaning  the  kid  threw  herself 
at  your  head  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 


384  THE  ACCOLADE 

Quentin  had  a  visible  shock.     "  You  knew  ?  " 

"I  —  er  —  divined  it.  So  did  old  Darcy.  So  did  my 
wife,  very  probably."  Johnny  considered  how  many  lies 
he  had  better  tell.  "  That  makes  no  difference,"  he  ex- 
plained for  Quentin's  consolation.  "  It's  just  a  little  way 
they  have." 

The  guest  was  silent,  looking  tired.  His  arm  lay  along 
the  chair-arm,  since  he  was  resting:  but  his  hand  at  the 
extremity  of  it  was  closely  clenched. 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Johnny,  still  with  the  kind  idea  of 
consoling  him,  "  it's  simply  incidental  to  the  kind  of  thing. 
It — er  —  always  happens:  that  is,  constantly.  You 
couldn't  have  stopped  her."  He  considered.  "  Not  with 
any  number  of  blue-books,  you  couldn't.  Some  one  else 
might  have,  of  course.  I  might,  if  I'd  known  you " 

Quentin  broke  in.  "  Drop  it,  at  least  till  we  find  her," 
he  said. 

"  Right,"  said  Johnny.  He  was  serious  for  several 
minutes,  excessively.  It  was  a  serious  matter, —  might 
be,  after  all.  Only 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  tried  again  very  gravely 
after  the  interval,  "  you  think  you  could  have  helped 
it?" 

The  boy  was  rigid  and  motionless,  teeth  set,  without  a 
doubt,  though  his  head  was  sightly  turned,  away, —  and 
that  expressive  hand  clenched  on  the  chair-arm.  He  was 
really  one  of  the  completest  things  of  his  kind  John  had 
ever  come  across :  all  of  a  piece  within  as  without.  And 
after  all,  it  was  no  fun  for  him. 

Johnny  speculated  on  his  guest  for  a  time,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  his  eyes  at  their  widest  through  his  rings  of 
cigarette  smoke,  except  when  the  smoke  reached  them, 
when  they  narrowed  up.  He  tried,  hard,  to  capture  the 
point  of  view.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  had  so  much 
difficulty:  but  he  did,  for  some  moments,  accomplish  it. 
Still,  his  natural  man  protested.  Conscience,  of  course, 
was  a  fine  thing,  but  you  can  overdo  it,  for  the  just  bal- 


STRETTO  385 

ance  of  life.  What  you  may  call  a  sense  of  proportion  is 
necessary.  To  go  back,  as  this  man  was  probably  doing, 
and  painfully  re-track  every  step  of  one's  acquaintance 
with  a  girl  —  it  was  true  he  had  done  it  himself  by  Ursula 
lately,  in  the  train  coming  north.  But  not  with  the  same 
purpose,  precisely.  Not  impelled  by  conscience,  exclu- 
sively, and  his  duty  to  the  state.  Not  with  the  entire 
weight  of  his  Imperial  responsibilities,  the  future  of  so- 
ciety, the  development  of  the  species, —  what  England 
expects.  Useless:  the  whole  of  the  humor  John  had 
taken  pains  to  exclude  from  the  serious  situation,  came 
crowding  back  into  it,  in  his  thoughts,  and  visible  in  his 
eyes.  The  rest  of  his  features  he  kept  with  an  effort, 
but  he  could  have  been  observed  keeping  them.  It  was 
a  strain. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Quentin  could  hardly  have  fallen 
into  kinder  hands,  in  a  position  which  exposed  him  to  the 
common  scoffer;  simply  because  John's  genius  was  not 
that  of  humor,  but  comedy:  a  far  broader  and  more 
benevolent  thing. 

"  You  go  to  bed,"  he  said  decidedly,  at  last. 

Quentin  stirred.  "  I  can't  take  your  bed,  Ingestre, 
really,"  he  protested. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  don't  want  it.     I'm  going  out  soon." 

He  spoke  with  finality,  and  rose  as  he  spoke ;  so  Quen- 
tin had  to  take  him  at  his  word.  But  he  made  one  more 
effort. 

"  Not  about  my  business,  I  say,"  he  said,  looking  up 
with  a  certain  shy  earnestness, —  nice  at  his  age. 
Johnny  approved  of  it.  He  shot  him  a  friendly  spark 
in  response. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  about  my  own."  He  added,  after  an 
interval  of  strolling  about  — "  For  want  of  better  —  in 
life.  See?" 

"  No,"  said  Quentin. 

"  Well  then,  take  your  boots  off,"  said  Johnny,  with  a 
happy  thought.  "  You  don't  know  much.  You  can  tell 


386  THE  ACCOLADE 

them  at  the  Board  of  Agriculture  I  said  so.  Got  every- 
thing you  want  ?  "  he  added,  looking  round  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Quentin  serenely,  without  stirring.  He 
was  thinking  deeply. 

"  Ingestre." 

"Well?" 

"  Helena  —  Miss  Falkland  —  I  suppose  she's  gone 
home?" 

"  No,  she's  still  there  at  the  house."  What  —  in  the 
name  of  the  eternal  —  John  was  momentarily  transfixed. 
Being  so  frozen,  he  spoke  in  a  still,  soft  voice.  "  Why 
should  she  have?"  he  ejaculated  in  sudden  indignation, 
his  color  rising.  "  It's  Sunday  to-day,  isn't  it  ?  Satur- 
day to  Sunday's  not  a  week-end." 

"No,"  said  Quentin.  "Only  I  thought  —  your 
mother " 

"  Ah,  just  so."  John»mastered  himself.  "  Well,  she 
hasn't.  At  least,  I  think  she  hasn't.  I  understood  from 
Ursula  on  —  er  —  whichever  day  it  was,  she  didn't  mean 
her  to,  anyhow.  What  I  mean  is,  if  she  had,  chances 
are  I  should  have  known.  With  any  luck,"  said  Johnny, 
"  you'll  see  her  to-morrow, —  er  —  get  a  good  chance  at 
her.  We're  going  south." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Quentin,  peacefully.     Young  cub ! 

"  If  you  don't  want  to, —  mention  it,"  said  Johnny, 
turning  on  him  suddenly  in  a  nasty  manner. 

"  I  do,  thanks.  It's  all  right.  .  .  .  Don't  bother  about 
me,"  added  Quentin  politely.  "  You've  got  your  writing. 
I  shall  be  all  right." 

On  consideration,  John  did  so, —  that  is,  retreated  to  his 
writing, —  and  it  was  about  time.  Few  young  men,  so 
highly  skilled  in  various  deceptions  as  Johnny,  could  have 
given  themselves  away  so  completely,  as  he  during  those 
last  few  responses.  He  could  not  help  it.  Do  what  he 
would  he  flushed,  flashed,  stirred  to  his  depths  at  the  mere 
mention  of  that  name.  Nobody  was  to  take  it  on  their 
lips  in  his  presence,  that  lovely  name  of  hers, —  another 


STRETTO  387 

man  above  all.  He  was  a  flame  on  the  instant,  a  flaming 
sword, —  he  was  a  tiger,  with  lowering  eyes,  patrolling 
softly  about  Helena's  temple,  and  swinging  his  tail. 
Johnny  became  a  tiger  easily  —  it  was  the  thing  he  did 
best:  perhaps  he  had  it  not  so  far  behind  him.  Having 
moved  about  and  eyed  Quentin  from  several  points  of 
view, —  all  unfavorable, —  he  patrolled  to  his  table  and  sat 
down,  dropping  himself  sulkily  into  his  chair  and  trim- 
ming his  light.  Teach  him  to  talk  about  her, —  said 
Johnny's  expression, —  mention  her  like  that  —  as  if  she 
had  been  anybody,  or  anything  to  do  with  him!  He 
chucked  his  books  about  a  little,  and  then  settled  down 
to  his  writing,  exceedingly  still. 

Mr.  Auberon,  thus  left  abruptly  to  his  own  devices, 
felt  at  ease,  for  all  his  somewhat  unusual  treatment. 
John's  celebrated  method  of  hospitality  was  simple, —  or 
rather,  it  was  threefold.  He  always  took  for  granted 
people  liked  him,  to  begin  with, —  which  had  the  odd  ef- 
fect, as  a  rule,  of  making  them  do  so.  He  said  everything 
he  wanted  to  them,  for  just  so  long  as  he  felt  inclined. 
When  he  had  had  enough  of  it,  he  left  them  to  themselves, 
with  a  supply  of  good  tobacco.  The  plan  was  only  ap- 
plicable to  men,  of  course:  at  least,  the  last  part  of  it: 
the  rest  was,  after  all,  much  the  same  for  the  two  sexes. 
He  had  found  it  answer  to  such  an  extent,  that  rather 
too  many  people  liked  him  in  the  world.  Witness  the 
formidable  pile  of  their  letters  on  his  writing-table,  of 
which  only  a  bare  half-dozen,  and  those  the  easiest,  were 
replied  to  as  yet. 

Quentin  responded  to  the  treatment  as  others  had  done. 
He  felt,  for  all  his  day's  wear  and  tear  of  body  and  mind, 
comforted,  supported, —  really  entertained.  He  was  also 
beginning,  he  believed,  to  get  the  hang  of  Ingestre,  though 
it  was  hard  to  keep  on  steady  lines  with  him,  he  put  one 
out  so  deliberately.  It  was  some  time  since  he  had 
stopped  regarding  him  as  a  "  waster,"  which  had  been  his 


388  THE  ACCOLADE 

original  impulse,  during  the  conversation  in  John's  house, 
in  which  they  compared  their  political  views.  Of  late, 
chiefly  owing  to  his  clever  letters,  his  opinion  of  him  had 
gone  up  by  leaps  and  bounds.  After  all,  a  man's  own 
letters  are  evidence.  Right  into  the  midst  of  this  grow- 
ing appreciation,  came  Falkland's  confidence  on  the  hill- 
tops concerning  his  sister ;  and  Quentin  felt  bound,  as  the 
Falklands'  friend,  to  think  of  him  with  temporary  dis- 
gust,—  though  curiosity.  He  was  already  interested 
enough,  in  a  personal  manner,  to  be  curious. 

Then  there  was  the  recent  business  of  the  hunt  for  the 
missing  girl, —  the  other  girl.  There  could  be  no  further 
question,  after  Quentin's  late  researches  in  John's  neigh- 
borhood, that  he  was  generous, —  any  more  than  that  he 
was  able, —  and  domineering.  Obviously,  in  that  matter, 
he  had  poured  forth  money  like  water,  and  bullyragged 
the  whole  of  the  country-side.  It  did  not  need  Quen- 
tin's detective  talent  to  discover  that.  There  was  hardly 
a  man,  official  or  otherwise,  within  the  radius  his  re- 
searches had  covered,  who  did  not  cringe  at  the  mere 
mention  of  his  distinguished  name. 

Quentin  the  improver  said  "  feudal "  at  first  to  this, 
with  all  the  disparagement  that  word  conveys  in  the 
modern  mouth ;  but  as  he  worked  back  to  the  house  that 
was  the  center  of  the  feudal  ring,  he  detected  something 
that  was  not  feudality  in  the  attitude  of  the  country-folk 
towards  the  family, —  that  is,  to  the  son.  There  was 
friendliness,  fatherliness  even,  in  the  old  farmers'  man- 
ner, and  an  active  partisanship  about  the  farmers'  wives. 
Fox  the  agent,  a  down-looking,  coarse-made  man,  with 
whom  Quentin  had  spoken  passingly,  was  under  young 
Ingestre's  thumb.  He  spoke  with  an  ill-bred  accent,  but 
a  reticence  of  good  breeding  that  was  certainly  imposed 
on  him  from  above.  More,  he  let  no  word  of  complaint 
or  criticism  escape  him,  though  he  had  the  chance,  more 
than  once.  It  was  true  he  called  Johnny  a  "  young 
viper  "  at  one  point,  but  the  term  seemed  dropped  in  pure 


STRETTO  389 

admiration  of  his  soft  and  deadly  methods,  employed 
against  a  firm  of  London  contractors  who  had  tried  to 
"  do  "  him  over  fitting  out  one  of  the  model  farms.  Gen- 
erally speaking,  Quentin  gathered  that  Ingestre  got  his 
money's  worth  out  of  everybody  who  worked  for  him, 
and  just  a  little  bit  extra  as  well.  Something  that 
"  feudality  "  alone  cannot  account  for,  with  whatever  vir- 
tuous and  unassailable  sentiments  feudality  may  be  bound 
up. 

Very  well :  then  there  was  this  matter  of  Miss  Falkland 
—  Helena :  that  was  harder  by  far.  It  was  so  hard,  con- 
sidering the  leap  of  the  unconquerable  fires  in  John's 
splendid  eyes  lately,  that  Quentin  flinched  from  it  shyly, 
and,  for  the  moment,  turned  to  something  else. 

He  took  in  his  surroundings,  which  were  extremely 
nice,  and  exactly  suited  him.  Complete,  as  well;  all  the 
materials  for  the  so-called  simple  life  were  there,  though 
some  of  them  were  not  exactly  simple.  Certain  details  — 
the  silver  lamp  at  Ingestre's  right  hand,  the  porcelain 
cup  to  his  left,  the  fine  linen  on  the  low  camp-bed,  the  yet 
finer  tobacco  Mr.  Auberon  was  enjoying  during  his  re- 
flections,—  seemed  borrowed  or  imported  from  a  more 
elaborate  life  beyond. 

It  was  a  mere  dependence,  this  chalet,  to  use  the  dear 
Swiss  term :  yet  the  man  was  living  in  it,  no  doubt  of 
that.  Nor  was  he  cut  off  completely,  as  the  "  pukka  " 
hermit  should  be,  for  he  was  being  well-served.  Quen- 
tin knew  far  too  much  about  camps  and  their  unlovely 
makeshifts  not  to  be  rapidly  convinced  of  that.  What- 
ever his  design  in  self-seclusion  might  be,  a  trained  serv- 
ant was  involved  in  it, —  only  that  made  the  situation 
odder,  if  anything.  And  he  wrotei  by  night, —  and 
walked  at  dawn, —  and  slept  by  day,  presumably.  Was 
that  the  latest  mode  of  "  making  up  the  season,"  Quentin 
wondered,  for  the  selecter  sections  of  London  society? 

Then  he  dropped  external  investigation,  and  his 
thoughts  took  wing  again, —  to  the  women.  It  was  time. 


390  THE  ACCOLADE 

First  to  his  own  distant  mother,  whom  Quentin  kept 
secret,  like  all  his  best  possessions,  and  before  the  pic- 
ture of  whom,  held  steadily  in  mind  for  a  moment,  he 
saluted  Ingestre's  grief.  That  was  all  right  at  least,  no 
trickery.  Then,  by  no  devious  course,  to  Falkland's  sis- 
ter, whom  already,  unthinking,  he  embraced  among  his 
best  possessions  too.  He  had  her  friendship.  He  had 
come  to  know  her  lately,  really  know  her,  in  the  airy 
echoing  solitudes  of  the  mountain-sides.  He  liked  Hel- 
ena, admired, —  and  trusted  her.  That  faith  he  had 
expressed  to  her  brother  had  been  no  mere  form  of  words. 
He  believed  in  her  loyalty,  honesty,  and  good  sense  as 
he  had  not  yet  believed  in  woman  —  girl  rather, —  but 
he  made  the  necessary  allowances.  Helena  was  young, 
and  she  was  tender-hearted.  She  had  been  fascinated, 
caught  by  the  man.  Deliberately  or  no  on  his  part,  he 
had  captured  her.  Well,  everything  was  already  for  him, 
Quentin  quite  admitted, —  no  competitor  in  whatever  lists 
could  be  more  finely  equipped.  Fate  had  granted  him, 
at  the  crucial  instant,  this  additional  chance  of  working 
on  a  girl's  sentiment,  a  woman's  pitif ulness, —  his  sorrow 
and  his  loss.  Urged  with  the  arts  which  any  man  who 
had  seen  him  act  could  credit  to  him,  it  might  have  been 
fatal  for  Helena, —  just.  It  just  might,  thought  Quentin, 
having  cogitated,  turned  it  over  carefully:  and  the  man 
was  far  too  adroit  not  to  see  his  opportunity. 

Very  well :  there  had  not  been  much  choice,  and  he  had 
chosen.  He  had  "  cut  "  the  girl, —  shown  her  out, —  a 
thing  that  made  Quentin  himself  wince  to  think  of,  in 
the  case  of  Helena  Falkland :  a  fortiori  worse  for  a  con- 
queror such  as  Ingestre,  who  had  barely  recognized  de- 
feat before.  He  had  negatived,  deliberately,  his  own 
assertive  nature:  foregone  all  action  at  the  crisis,  with- 
drawn from  the  heroic  attitude, —  simply  refrained. 

There  was  a  long  pause  in  Quentin's  cogitations  there, 
his  eagle-eyes  lowered  to  the  little  brasier.  He  had  thirty 
miles  of  uneven  English  road  in  his  limbs,  and  it  was 


STRETTO  391 

delightful  to  rest  in  such  comfort,  quiet, —  with  a  record 
behind  him.  Falkland  would  be  sick  with  him,  for  ven- 
turing to  break  the  record  for  a  summer  day  single- 
handed.  Falkland,  in  all  such  undertakings,  expected  to 
be  at  his  side. 

Well  then,  to  resume,  granted  he  had  got  it  straight, 
the  thing  was  there,  it  did  exist, —  the  poets  and  people 
were  right.  He  had  always  hoped  it  might  be  so.  Quen- 
tin's  youthful  bitterness  had  grown  on  him  fast  of  late, 
owing  to  circumstances,  and  to  over-work :  and  it  needed 
a  powerful  counteracting  influence,  just  at  this  point,  to 
shake  off  the  cynical  scales.  Now  he  had  it, —  what  one 
might  call  a  decent  demonstration,  and  in  a  human  form 
he  could  respect.  Feeling  always  in  a  mild  degree  re- 
sponsible for  Helena,  since  he  had  become  engaged  to 
her  mistakenly  in  the  public  columns,  and  in  the  popular 
mind,  Quentin  did  respect  Ingestre,  and  thanked  him  too. 
It  might  be  a  poor  show  from  the  purely  dramatic  point 
of  view,  but  from  Quentin's  it  was  a  "  good  effort," — 
what  his  father's  family  called  a  "  beau  geste."  His 
eyes,  on  their  last  travels  round  the  log-house,  rested  for 
a  passing  instant  on  the  owner's  head.  John's  dark  head 
was  propped  on  his  hand,  while  he  answered  letters  with 
the  rapid  indifference  of  a  ready  writer.  His  guest, 
courteous  on  instinct,  had  not  disturbed  him  even  to  the 
extent  of  spying  on  him  previously:  but  he  just  glanced 
that  way  in  approval  now.  One  could  not  say  anything 
to  him,  naturally ;  but  Quentin  would  have  liked  to  thank 
him  once  —  as  demonstrator — if  as  nothing  else. 

Soon  after  that,  being  all  but  asleep,  he  decided  it 
might  be  as  well,  after  all,  to  go  to  bed,  as  he  had  been 
directed  to  do  some  time  since.  Having  picked  up  the 
facts  he  required  from  headquarters,  he  had  to  "  cut,"  at 
all  costs,  before  the  women  were  about  in  the  morning. 
Not  that  he  specially  wished  to  avoid  Helena — Miss 
Falkland;  only  he  thought,  just  at  this  moment,  consid- 
ering everything  —  and  Ingestre  —  it  might  be  as  well. 


392  THE  ACCOLADE 

Ingestre  might  quite  well  put  a  bullet  through  his  head, 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  if  he  spoke  to  her, —  that 
was  one  thing.  But  besides  that,  he  was  the  sort  of  man 
who  finished  things  off,  once  he  had  begun  them ;  and  he 
would  finish  them  best,  in  this  instance, —  and  with  that 
girl, —  alone. 


Later  on,  John  went  out,  as  soon  as  the  first  light  gave 
him  an  excuse.  It  could  not  be  called  a  new  habit  for  him 
to  see  the  sun  rise  at  Routhwick,  but  it  was  a  habit  which 
he  had  intermitted  for  a  considerable  period.  It  belonged 
to  the  log-house's  quite  young  days :  to  the  days  when  his 
mother  had  been  his  only  natural  authority, —  call  it  the 
only  days  when  John  had  recognized  authority  at  all. 

It  had  been  a  fine  night,  and  it  was  going  to  be  a  lovely 
day,  this  that  took  him  south  to  his  mother's  funeral.  It 
would  be  wasted  in  the  train, —  the  first  fine  day  for  a 
month  and  more!  Such  is  life.  Johnny  bathed  first: 
then  he  took  a  walk  to  the  village  post-box,  to  get  the 
letters  off  his  hands:  then,  being  practically  minded  by 
daylight,  and  having  still  plenty  of  time  in  front  of  him 
till  the  world  rose,  he  made  a  tour  of  his  property  to  see 
if  he  could  catch  any  of  his  servants  out  in  their  manner 
of  disposing  things  —  his  things  —  overnight.  However, 
since  they  were  all  unnecessarily  conscientious  in  this  part 
of  the  world,  he  found  nothing  particular  to  criticise. 
He  sought  and  prowled  about  in  vain.  It  was  not  beauti- 
fully done  —  far  from  it  —  but  it  was  thoroughly,  effi- 
ciently done, —  a  working  efficiency.  There  was  not  an 
ounce  of  originality  or  taste  in  one  of  them. 

This  applied  especially  to  the  garden.  On  the  garden- 
ers above  all  Johnny  had  to  keep  a  hand  of  iron,  or  he 
would  have  taken  prizes  for  turnips  and  so  on  at  all  the 
local  shows,  and  never  had  a  flower  worth  looking  at. 

Flowers  reminded  him;  and  still  practically  minded, 
thinking  of  the  immediate  future,  he  went  to  have  a  look 


STRETTO  393 

at  the  lilies.  Ursula  would  object  to  them,  probably,  be- 
cause they  were  not  completely  white.  Also,  they  would 
send  masses  of  common  white  things,  paper-white  and 
scentless,  from  the  hothouses  at  the  Hall.  But  then,  this 
was  Routhwick,  his  mother's  own  place,  and  the  beds  that 
she  herself  had  first  cultivated. 

The  lilies  were  there  all  right,  at  the  extremity  of  the 
wall  garden,  in  his  mother's  long  bed,  wide-awake,  crisp, 
and  looking  out  for  him :  not  dank  and  shut  and  sodden 
like  lots  of  the  flowers.  They  were  a  proper  kind  of 
plant  to  look  at,  upstanding,  generous,  not  coy  and  shy 
and  silly, —  Johnny  did  not  wonder  his  mother  liked 
them.  And  these  were  a  new  kind,  procured  with  much 
labor,  a  kind  she  had  never  seen.  They  had  taken  to  the 
Yorkshire  soil  at  once  —  nice  of  them  —  it  would  be  a 
bit  of  a  pity  to  cut  them  down.  Still,  all  things  must  go 
in  a  month  or  two,  and  now  they  were  just  at  their 
best. 

Very  good.  Johnny  —  perhaps  a  little  less  than  prac- 
tical by  this  time, —  decided  the  lilies  should  go.  They 
were  very  nice  lilies,  if  they  were  not  quite  the  correct 
ones.  They  smelt  nice  too,  less  overpowering  than  the 
early  kind.  Ursula  could  have  the  correct  ones  made, — 
in  plaster  of  Paris, —  or  chiffon, —  if  she  wished.  He  did 
not  cut  them  while  they  were  still  wet,  that  could  wait. 
He  only  interviewed  them  critically,  all  in  turn,  devoting 
them  internally  to  the  sacrifice, —  to  the  pyre. 

Then  he  turned  round,  and  stopped,  as  though  shot. 

The  thing  he  had  not  thought  of,  all  this  time,  was  that 
Miss  Falkland  should  rise  early  to  look  at  the  lilies  too. 
How  could  he  think  of  it?  First,  he  was  thinking  for  the 
moment  of  other  things, —  there  were  really  so  many  just 
now.  And  next,  having  always  seen  her  in  London,  he 
was  apt  to  forget  that  she  was  a  country  girl, —  country 
born  and  bred.  He  thought  she  remained  nicely  asleep 
till  people  called  her,  and  then  did  all  the  things  that  girls 


394  THE  ACCOLADE 

do,  and  came  to  breakfast.  He  thought  she  was  like 
Ursula,  in  short,  who  nowadays  never  got  up  early  except 
for  hunting,  and  only  then  when  he  lugged  her  out  of  bed. 
How  could  he  so  have  mistaken  —  values,  as  to  think 
Helena  was  like  Ursula?  Yet  he  had. 

She  had  not  seen  him,  and  he  was  frightened,  and  stood 
still.  Frightened  was  the  word.  He  looked  behind  him, 
—  there  was  no  retreat.  The  path  he  stood  011  finished 
in  a  bay,  of  the  wall,  cozily  occupied  for  social  purposes 
by  a  green  seat;  and  her  path  joined  it,  just  ten  yards 
away.  He  could  advance,  of  course,  and  meet  her:  go 
to  meet  his  fate,  as  it  had  always  been  his  boast  to  do, — 
but  he  was  frightened,  terrified  without  shame  of  doing 
harm  to  her,  she  looked  so  exquisite  as  she  came.  She 
was  moving  slowly,  stately  in  her  manner,  head  bent,  her 
skirts  brushing  the  wet  flowers.  And  so  pale, —  heavens, 
how  pale  she  was!  She  had  been  suffering,  a  day  and 
two  nights,  because  he  had  snubbed  her.  .  .  . 

There  was  another  thing  too,  a  thing  he  had  noted  long 
before,  when  he  met  her  first  in  the  lilies'  company,  that 
day  in  his  father's  hall.  Only  if  he  suspected,  guessed  at 
it  then,  it  exhaled  from  her  now, —  the  immaculate. 
Meredith,  in  a  famous  passage,  holds  that  those  who  sleep 
beneath  a  flowering  tree  in  springtime  must  be  good.  It 
is  surely  as  true  that  those  who  choose  to  wake  and  walk 
at  dawn  must  be  pure, —  there  is  a  marked  unwillingness 
to  face  that  hour  otherwise.  Our  poets  prove  it :  Herbert 
could  qualify  the  dawn  in  a  few  lovely  words, —  Herrick 
could  not,  however  much  the  glow-worms  lit  the  dusk  for 
him.  It  was  that,  something  like  that,  but  less  expressi- 
ble, that  Johnny  felt  in  her:  foolish,  no  doubt,  since  she 
was  a  far  from  extraordinary,  ignorant  English  girl. 
But  since  she  was  the  beloved  of  his  life,  he  may  be  al- 
lowed to  have  an  instinct  in  the  matter. 

She  came  to  the  end  of  her  path,  and  stopped. 

"  John !  "  she  said.  They  were  alone  with  nature,  so 
nature  spoke. 


STRETTO  395 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said  quickly,  for  he  had  the  advan- 
tage. By  at  least  a  minute  and  a  half  the  advantage  had 
been  his.  They  stood  at  their  full  height,  beautiful  pair, 
at  ten  paces'  distance,  their  eyes  exchanging  facts  inti- 
mately, but  without  familiarity.  Familiarity  is  never  a 
quality  bred  by  grief.  "  Over,"  said  his  eyes,  and  hers 
did  not  dispute  it,  only  her  wistful  look  strengthened  to 
certainty.  That  was  what  Helena  had  expected,  to  find 
him  in  the  life  and  feel  quite  sure. 

"  I'm  sorry  about  your  mother,"  she  said  softly,  when 
she  could. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be,"  said  Johnny.  "  That's  why  it 
was  —  no  good,  partly.  I  had  to  be  alone."  That  was 
as  far  as  he  ever  went,  at  that  or  any  other  time,  in 
apology. 

Again  they  stood  in  the  sun,  and  she  looked  downward, 
the  insidious  moor-breeze  fanning  her  little  curls.  She 
was  uncertain  what  came  next,  questioning  as  to  retire- 
ment,—  Johnny  must  help.  So  he  helped  by  coming  up 
to  her,  meeting  her  really, —  why  not?  Since  she  was 
here  among  the  lilies,  when  he  was  lonely,  why  should 
he,  on  this  of  all  mornings,  drive  her  away  ?  His  mother 
would  look  after  her,  even  if  he  could  not.  Whatever 
other  realm  were  denied  them  they  were  king  and  queen, 
unchallenged,  of  this  fresh  morning  world.  One  might 
steal  a  march,  with  the  least  effort,  on  the  rest  of  chat- 
tering, ape-like  humanity.  With  the  smallest  moral  or 
dramatic  effort,  that  could  be  done. 

"  Come  and  see  my  river,"  he  suggested,  in  a  delicate 
tone  and  tentative  manner.  "  It's  better  than  yours." 

Helena  was  surprised,  a  little.  She  turned  her  head 
and  looked  round  her.  Then,  as  though  the  loneliness 
and  the  lilies  relieved  her  too,  she  turned  to  him,  laughed 
a  shadow  of  her  little  laugh,  and  came.  So  that  was  all 
right.  Up  went  Johnny's  spirits,  merely  to  have  her: 
and  up  went  Helena's,  merely  to  be  at  his  side. 

"  Do  we  go  that  way  ?  "  she  enquired,  as  he  stopped  at 


396  THE  ACCOLADE 

the  little  gate  of  the  Lyke-wood,  on  the  western  or  gale- 
ward  side  of  the  garden  wall. 

"  I'd  take  you,  like  a  shot,"  said  Johnny,  reflecting  over 
it.  "  Only  I've  got  a  visitor." 

"A  visitor?" 

He  nodded.     "  Friend  of  yours.     Young  Auberon." 

"  Quentin  here  ?  "     She  was  amazed.  ' 

"  He  looked  in  about  midnight,"  said  Johnny,  "  cool  as 
you  please.  Sat  and  told  me  what  to  think,  for  several 
hours.  Now  he's  asleep,  after  a  day  and  a  half  across 
country.  He's  only  had  four  hours'  sleep,  see?  He 
might  be  dangerous  if  we  woke  him  up." 

"  Yes,  he  might,"  said  Helena  thoughtfully.  "  Poor 
Quentin.  Very  well."  She  sighed,  because  she  had  so 
wanted  to  see  the  camp  and  its  defenses.  However, 
they  went  on. 

Johnny  discouraged  the  advances  of  the  dogs  in  the 
yard,  though  Helena  begged  for  them.  They  might 
knock  her  into  the  river,  he  said.  How  far  jealousy 
entered  into  his  calculations,  need  not  be  asked.  He 
wanted  Helena  to  himself,  this  morning.  So,  having 
told  the  smaller  dogs  not  to  be  asses,  and  quenched  the 
largest  with  the  heel  of  his  boot,  they  proceeded  to  the 
stile. 

"  Sure  your  shoes  are  thick  enough?  "  said  Johnny  with 
a  scruple.  "  There's  a  dew  and  a  half,  you  know, —  pints 
to  the  square  inch, —  and  heaps  of  time  to  go  and  change." 
Helena  only  laughed:  she  regarded  it  as  a  joke  to  get  wet, 
still  among  those  ages.  "  And  there  are  hours  to  break- 
fast, I  ought  to  tell  you,"  proceeded  her  host.  "  Are  you 
hungry?" 

"  I  shall  be,  if  you  talk  about  it,"  said  Helena. 
"  Don't." 

"  I'll  go  and  get  you  some  cheese  from  the  farm,"  said 
Johnny  thoughtfully.  "  It's  jolly  good  cheese,  and  the 
bread's  home-made." 

"  Do  be  quiet,"  said  Helena,  laughing  and  detaining 


STRETTO  397 

him.  She  was  so  afraid  that  he  would  leave  her  that  she 
detained  him  with  a  hand.  "  Talk  about  something  else 
quickly.  Tell  me  why  Quentin  came." 

So  Johnny  told  her,  as  they  went  across  the  fields.  He 
told  her  all  about  Jill ;  for,  having  reconsidered  it,  or 
rather  her,  he  saw  no  harm.  It  was  a  woman's  history, 
fitted  for  a  woman's  ear.  It  was  a  girl's  history  too. 
There  was  much  that  was  painful,  but  nothing  that  was 
odious,  in  it.  Helena  could  hear  some  things  he  pre- 
ferred to  keep  from  Auberon, —  still  better,  she  could  be 
judge  what  Auberon  ought  finally  to  know.  Johnny  had 
wanted  a  confidante  badly,  throughout  the  business,  for 
he  never  really  liked  thinking  alone.  He  had  been  very 
unhappy  in  the  station  that  day,  and  he  had  all  but  made 
a  confidante  of  Ursula.  He  nearly  always  chose  a 
woman,  if  he  could  find  one,  to  think  with, —  as  may 
have  been  noticed  in  this  chronicle:  —  telling  her,  of 
course,  what  to  think  by  the  way,  but  finding  his  own 
thoughts  the  more  easily  for  her  society.  That  was  why 
he  was  so  clearly  constructed  to  be  a  good  husband  to 
somebody,  the  somebody  he  had  not  found.  He  had 
been  extremely  useful  to  Ursula,  if  you  came  to  that, 
and  Ursula  had  lost  the  habit  of  thinking  for  herself  in 
consequence, —  because  Ursula  was  not  the  right  one. 
The  right  one  would  have  kept  the  habit  in  spite  of  him, 
—  long,  long  since,  on  the  night  of  his  own  dance, 
Johnny  had  had  an  inkling  of  that.  He  needed  something 
buoyant  at  his  side,  not  a  dead  weight  of  dependence, 
though  he  was  strong  enough  —  just  —  to  bear  that. 
But  it  irked  him,  and  he  treated  it  badly, —  though  he 
saw  that  it  thought  in  the  right  way. 

Now  he  had  the  buoyant  thing  of  his  desire,  precisely, 
and  he  was  perfect  in  fair  dealing.  He  did  not  hector  at 
all,  unless  in  fun,  once  or  twice.  Helena  did  some  hec- 
toring. Helena  told  him  he  was  hard  on  Jill:  she  told 
him  he  was  horrid  about  it.  She  had  always  loved  Jill, 
ever  since  she  saw  her  act  that  day, —  though  of  course 


398  THE  ACCOLADE 

she  had  hated  her  for  acting  so  beautifully.  Thus  she 
explained,  and  Johnny  quite  understood.  He  had  hated 
the  girl  for  acting  beautifully  too.  He  had  had  to  buck 
up  himself,  in  quite  a  tiring  degree,  to  take  her  on.  In 
fact  it  might  be  argued  —  but  Helena  was  not  going  to 
pay  him  compliments,  she  was  intent  on  the  other  ques- 
tion. She  made  him  go  on,  right  through,  to  the  bitter 
end, —  which  was  no  end,  of  course,  only  conjecture. 
His  suspicions, —  the  reasons  of  his  suspicions, —  his  view 
of  the  girl's  character, —  all  about  it. 

Then  she  was  silent  for  a  time,  digesting  it. 

"  Poor  Quentin ! "  she  said.  That  was  her  first 
thought.  It  was  said  with  most  earnest  feeling,  and 
Johnny  had  to  bear  it.  He  bore  it,  on  the  whole,  well. 

"  He  was  in  a  fair  way,"  he  admitted.  "  Seldom  saw  a 
man  so  sick.  He  was  ready  to  heave  rocks  at  the  scen- 
ery, as  it  was.  If  I  told  him  the  rest  of  it  —  my 
word !" 

"  But  won't  you  have  to  ?  "  said  Helena. 

Johnny  waited.  "  Well,  you  see,  nothing  may  ever 
happen.  No  reason  to  put  him  out  if  nothing  does.  Is 
there?" 

"You  mean,  they  may  never  find  her?" 

"  No." 

"  Alive  —  or  otherwise  ?  " 

"  They  may  never  find  her  otherwise,"  said  Johnny. 

"And  if  they  do?" 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  break  it  to  him.  Her  inten- 
tion, I  mean.  But  I  shan't  show  him  the  journal." 

"  I  think,"  said  Helena,  having  bent  her  fair  brow,  in 
earnest  thought,  for  some  time,  "  that  you  ought  to. 
Because,  you  see,  she  left  it  for  him.  Don't  you  think 
you  ought  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Have  you  read  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Johnny. 


STRETTO  399 

"  Well,  then,  how  do  you  know  —  oh  dear,"  she 
laughed,  "  if  you  really  think  so !  Only " 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I've  not  seen  it,"  temporized  Helena.  Johnny  con- 
sidered for  a  time.  It  was  beautiful  to  have  so  much  time 
before  them,  during  this  leisurely  morning  walk.  They 
took  full  five-and-thirty  minutes  to  walk  to  the  bridge: 
which,  considering  their  respective  form,  was  disgrace- 
ful. 

"  I'd  show  it  you  if  —  I  thought  it  any  good,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  don't, —  see  ?  It's  nothing  against  you,  it's  merely 
the  sickly  futility  of  the  whole  affair.  She  was  good 
stuff,  that  girl,  properly  speaking.  But  she  went  bad, 
owing  to  circumstances.  Rotten  bad.  Not  her  fault." 

"  I  see,"  said  Helena.  "  Poor  darling.  I  wish  I  had 
known  her  a  little  more." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  you  had,"  said  Johnny,  overpowered  by 
the  clear  genius  of  this  suggestion.  "  You  could  have 
taught  her  a  thing  or  two." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Helena.  "  I  didn't  at 
all  feel  like  teaching  her  anything." 

Johnny  adored  her  again  for  this.  Little  she  knew! 
But  he  was  quite  right  not  to  show  her  that  journal, 
obviously.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  sort  of  kind,  thank 
the  Lord ! 

So  they  came  to  the  bridge.  "  There !  "  said  Johnny, 
scoring,  by  the  one  word,  all  that  was  necessary. 

Helena  nodded  to  his  challenging  spark:  and  by  her 
steady  look  abroad,  embracing  his  river,  accepted  the 
score. 

The  water  had  gone  down  a  good  bit,  as  Quentin  said ; 
some  of  the  rocks  were  out,  and  few  were  even  dry. 
But  it  was  still  grand  enough  to  think  about,  even  to 
think  at  length :  though  not  so  maddening,  so  distracting 
to  the  spirit  as  it  had  been.  Besides,  the  sun  improved 
matters,  the  bright  morning  sun  flashing  on  the  foaming 


400  THE  ACCOLADE 

rapids,  and  making  rainbows  in  the  spray  above  them. 
It  was  a  much  more  heartening  spectacle  to-day  than  it 
had  been  that  bitter  gray  morning,  in  the  small  hours  of 
which  the  bridge  went  down. 

Helena  exclaimed  with  pity  —  she  had  pity  for  every- 
thing —  over  the  broken  bridge. 

"  Don't  go  too  near,"  advised  Johnny,  sitting  down  him- 
self extremely  near,  on  a  remnant  of  the  ragged  parapet. 

"  Oh,  do  be  careful !  "  said  Helena,  vexed. 

— "  And  what  you  might  not  understand,"  said  Johnny, 
when  she  had  found  a  seat  near  him,  harking  back  as 
intimates  do  to  the  previous  question,  after  a  purely  ex- 
ternal interruption,  "  some  of  it, —  that  journal  business, 

—  was  put  on.     Practicing  passion, —  playing  at  it.     We 
do  that." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Helena,  puzzled. 

"  We  do  at  times.     When  we're  —  not  at  our  best.     It 

—  er  —  feels  rather  nice." 

"  Deceive  yourselves,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.  "  I  don't  think  we  ever  quite  do 
that,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  You  can  —  er  —  confuse 
yourself  a  little,  if  you're  careful.  It's  a  kind  of  self- 
indulgence,  risky  a  bit,  like  opium  eating, —  specially  for 
a  girl.  Seems  to  me  worse  for  a  girl,  I  may  be  wrong. 
Not  that  she  could  help  it,  really." 

He  sighed:  then,  lunging  suddenly  side-long  from  his 
precarious  station,  leant  on  his  elbow  to  gaze  at  the  water 
beneath  him,  loosening  several  bits  of  stone  by  his  move- 
ment, which  trickled  into  the  stream. 

Helena  gasped,  and  very  nearly  clutched  him  again. 
She  did  wish  he  would  be  careful,  flinging  himself  about 
like  that ! 

It  struck  her,  considering  him  in  his  new  position,  that 
if  he  had,  really,  walked  with  them  recently  in  the  moun- 
tains, he  would  have  done  things  like  that  on  purpose  to 
make  Quentin,  who  climbed  by  theory  in  classical  style, 


STRETTO  401 

annoyed.  Helena  could  see  him  doing  them.  It  was 
wrong,  of  course,  to  imagine  him  quarreling  with  Quentin 
about  trifles,  in  the  mountains,  and  the  consequent  efforts 
incumbent  upon  her,  as  the  friend  of  both,  to  make  peace. 
She  had  better  not  think  about  it,  or  she  might  laugh, — 
or  cry,  which  would  be  worse.  It  had  caught  her  breath 
already,  now  that  he  was  river-gazing,  and  she  could 
watch  him  unobserved,  to  see  how  tired  he  was.  So 
Helena  locked  her  hands  in  her  lap,  in  order  not  to  be 
tempted  to  save  Johnny  from  sudden  death,  if  he  desired 
it,  and  set  herself,  with  her  eyes  on  the  river,  to  puzzle 
at  the  terrible  problem  of  Miss  Jacoby, —  Jill. 

"  You  mean  she  was  not  really  in  love  with  Quentin  ?  " 
she  ventured  shyly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear,"  said  Johnny.     "  Oh  —  yes !  " 

He  was  perfectly  abstracted,  plunged  in  a  river-trance. 
So  Helena,  smiling,  let  him  alone,  and  leant  back  in  her 
more  comfortable  corner.  It  was  not  wrong  at  least  to 
rest,  and  dream,  and  feel  safe  in  his  society.  Anybody 
could  do  that.  As  the  sun's  strength  grew  greater,  warm- 
ing them,  there  seemed  no  reason  to  talk,  or  move.  Lord 
Levinson's  cows,  coming  down  the  opposite  bank  not  far 
below  to  drink,  and  flick  at  the  morning  fly  with  their 
tasseled  tails,  scarcely  turned  a  glance  in  their  direction, 
they  sat  so  motionless.  Johnny,  indeed,  was  in  danger  of 
falling  asleep.  The  hot  sun  of  daybreak,  after  a  sleepless 
night,  is  stupefying, —  let  those  who  doubt  it  try. 

"  Oughtn't  we  to  be "  began  Miss  Falkland  at  last, 

recalled  to  time  after  an  interval  of  eternity.  "  Oh, 
what's  the  matter?" 

It  seemed  that  her  voice,  falling  into  the  long  pause, 
had  startled  John.  Sitting  up  of  a  sudden,  he  put  a  hand 
to  his  head. 

"  Idiot !  "  he  ejaculated,  with  astonishing  vigor,  drop- 
ping the  hand  to  his  knee.  Overdoing  things  as  usual, 
he  nearly  jerked  himself  off  into  the  water;  howtver,  he 


402  THE  ACCOLADE 

recovered,  and  got  up.  He  looked  dazed,  and  drowsy: 
seemed  searching  rather  at  random  for  his  ordinary  facul- 
ties to  reassure  her. 

"  I  don't  mean  you,"  he  explained,  stopping  in  front  of 
her, —  she  was  gazing  up  with  lifted  brows.  "  Somebody 
else  I  happened  to  think  of.  It  just  came  over  me." 

"  Lord  Levinson  ?  "  asked  Helena.  She  had,  of  course, 
heard  that  story,  at  full  length,  in  Johnny's  letters  from 
Routhwick;  and  she  had  noticed  him  lately  gaze  across 
the  water,  as  though  considering. 

"  Oh,  he  is  too,"  said  Johnny  reassuringly.  "  Only  this 
is  a  worse  case.  Levinson  never  had  any  brains.  The 
one  I'm  thinking  of  has  got  'em, —  one  or  two." 

"  Oh  then,  I  know  who  it  is,"  said  Helena. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Johnny,  disconcerted.  Miss  Falkland 
had  also  risen,  and  they  turned  and  began  to  walk  back, 
side  by  side. 

"  You  happen  to  think  of  him  rather  often,  don't  you?  " 
said  Helena. 

Johnny  glanced  at  her.  He  had  never  before  let  a  little 
cub  of  nineteen  tease  him.  Violet,  uncomfortably  bril- 
liant as  she  had  been  at  that  dangerous  age,  had  pretty 
well  had  to  mind  her  p's  and  q's  in  his  company.  He 
had  allowed  no  liberties. 

On  the  way  home,  Helena  talked  to  him :  he  was  quiet, 
thinking,  as  was  clear;  looking  about  him,  though, —  he 
never  missed  anything  of  interest  in  the  landscape, —  he 
even  bent  and  picked  her  up  a  tiny  flower  once.  Helena 
thought  of  his  mother,  the  way  he  had  always  mentioned 
her,  even  passingly :  and  the  way  his  wife  had  mentioned 
her  too.  She  now  supposed,  accounting  for  his  altered 
manner,  that  with  the  return  to  the  house,  the  day's  grave 
duties  came  back  to  him.  He  had  been  entertaining  her 
lately,  acting  host,  acting  courtier,  as  he  had  been  trained. 
It  was  she  who  was  wrong  to  have  forgotten,  even  for  a 
moment,  his  situation. 

They  came  over  the  high  fields  of  rich  grass,  the  grass 


STRETTO  403 

from  which,  with  the  intervention  of  a  few  natural  proc- 
esses, the  famous  cheeses  of  the  dale  are  made.  They 
were  plain  fields,  all  of  them,  well-kept  and  untrimmed, 
like  all  things  in  Yorkshire,  respectable  only  in  their  es- 
sential wealth :  with  the  absurd  little  stone  gaps  between 
that  all  well-grown  youths  and  maidens  must  writhe  them- 
selves to  get  through.  Twice,  having  energy  to  spare, 
he  flung  himself  over  the  wall,  leaving  her  to  negotiate 
the  gap  alone, —  no  sorrow  in  all  the  world  could  quench 
those  fires  in  him.  And  once  he  refrained  from  so  doing, 
deliberately,  because  there  were  certain  of  his  laboring 
subjects  in  the  path  who  spoke  to  him.  That  was  the  only 
moment  when  he  recalled  to  Helena  his  London  royalty. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  feet  are  undoubtedly  wet,  Miss  Falk- 
land," he  said,  as  they  approached  the  higher  civilization 
of  his  own  domain. 

"  They  are  undoubtedly,"  she  laughed.  "  Only  I  think 
I  like  your  kind  of  wetness  as  much  as  any  I  have  tried 
lately — Mr.  Ingestre." 

She  just  added  it  in  order  to  correct  anything  she  might 
have  done  wrong  before.  It  was  marked  with  that  inten- 
tion clearly,  and  Mr.  Ingestre  swore  in  his  heart.  Luck- 
ily she  was  far,  very  far  from  penetrating  that  department 
of  him, —  he  and  his  mother,  between  them,  had  kept  her 
safe. 

He  pushed  her  through  the  little  gate  into  the  upper 
garden,  without  a  thought,  his  fingers  on  her  arm.  Then, 
being  reminded,  he  dropped  them  off  her  easily,  half-way 
to  the  house.  His  servant  Blandy  unlatched  the  Lyke- 
wood  gate,  and  issued  with  a  hasty  step  into  the  garden, 
immediately  in  their  way. 

"  Hold  up,"  said  Johnny  warningly. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Blandy,  recoiling 
politely.  "  It's  Mrs.  Ingestre,  Mr.  John.  She  wishes  to 
know  if  you'll  be  breakfasting  at  the  bungalow,  or  in  the 
house." 

"  I'm  breakfasting  with  Mr.  Auberon,"  said  Johnny 


404  THE  ACCOLADE 

succinctly.  "  And  it's  not  a  bungalow  —  tell  Mrs.  In- 
gestre." 

"  Mr.  Auberon's  gone,  sir." 

"What?"  Johnny  swung  round.  "Confound  you, 
what  do  you  want  to  let  him  go  for  ?  I've  got  something 
special  to  say." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Blandy  regretfully.  "  I  went  in 
and  found  Mr.  Auberon  instead  of  you  —  as  he  ex- 
plained   " 

"  You  shut  up,"  said  Johnny.  "  It's  not  your  bed  any- 
how." 

Blandy  was  not  so  sure  of  this:  however,  he  did  not 
argue,  since  Miss  Falkland  was  there.  "  You'll  be  break- 
fasting in  the  house,  sir," —  was  all  he  said. 

"  I  shan't  breakfast  anywhere  till  I've  seen  Mr.  Au- 
beron. See?  You  go  and  find  him,"  said  Johnny. 

"  The  train's  ten-thirty-eight,"  observed  Blandy. 
"  That's  starting  nine-thirty  at  latest  in  the  present  state 
of  things." 

"  When  I  want  time-tables,  I'll  ask  for  them,"  said 
Johnny.  "  You  go  and  do  what  I  say." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Mr.  Auberon  might  be  some  miles  off  by 
this  time.  All  depends  the  direction  he  chose  to  take." 

"  And  he  didn't  confide  in  you  ? "  queried  Johnny, 
leaning  against  the  gate.  "  Blandy,  you  are  a  goat,  really ! 
I  want  him.  He  —  er  —  never  said  good-by." 

Blandy  looked  at  Miss  Falkland,  who  was  laughing. 
He  hardly  wondered,  either.  This  was  not  Mr.  John's 
best  manner,  the  high-class  one  he  kept  for  public  occa- 
sions. It  was  as  though  Mr.  John  did  not  reckon  Miss 
Falkland  as  the  public,  quite. 

"  Perhaps  he  never  does  say  good-by,"  said  Johnny. 
"  Does  he,  Miss  Falkland  ?  She  knows  him," —  to 
Blandy.  "  Oh,  dash  the  man !  He  never  does  a  thing 
you'd  expect,  so  far  as  I've  observed  him.  I  thought  he 
could  sleep  for  five  hours,  safe.  Blandy,  I  say, —  it's 
serious." 


STRETTO  405 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Blandy.  He  now  had  an  idea,  by 
Johnny's  eyes,  that  it  was.  He  was  very  well  used  to 
reading  him. 

"  Too  serious  for  Miss  Falkland,"  said  Johnny.  "  She 
can  go.  At  least  I  mean,  we  will  leave  her,  with  her 
kind  permission.  Do  you  mind  ?  " 

He  was  silent  a  minute  or  two,  while  the  girl  made  her 
way  up  the  garden:  quite  silent,  leaning  on  the  gate, 
then  he  spoke  in  another  tone.  "Look  here,"  he  said. 
"  There  isn't  much  time,  as  a  fact,  and  I'm  bothered  about 
this.  Have  you  —  er  —  got  a  minute?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Blandy, —  mendaciously.  He  ought  to 
have  gone  straight  to  Ursula. 

"  It's  the  usual  thing,"  said  Johnny,  drawing  him  inside 
the  wood.  "  I've  been  a  fool,  from  the  first." 

"  About  the  girl  ?  "  said  Blandy. 

"  That's  it.  I've  a  living  conviction,  now,  where  she  is. 
Can't  tell  you  how.  It  came  to  me  on  the  bridge.  Or 
rather  where  —  I  ought  to  be  slain  for  being  such  an  ass," 
said  Johnny,  frowning.  "  But  I  don't  suppose  we  could 
have  saved  her." 

"  You've  done  all  a  man  can  do,"  said  the  young  man, 
with  absolute  certainty.  "  And  it's  your  food  you  want, 

—  begging  your  pardon."     Blandy's  eyes  were  directed 
resentfully  to  John's  bed,  since  they  had  now  reached  the 
log-house. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right."  Johnny  glanced  that  way  too. 
"  I  didn't  —  er  —  happen  to  have  time,  you  haven't  al- 
ways. Fact  is,  I've  been  keeping  two  things  going  the 
last  few  days, —  it's  that  does  the  trick.  And  I've  pretty 
well  played  the  fool  in  both,  as  it  now  turns  out, —  never 
mind." 

"  You  tell  me  what  to  do,"  said  Blandy. 

"Can  you,  do  you  think?  You'd  be  awfully  kind. 
It's  simply  catching  Auberon, —  I'll  write  to  him, —  and 

—  er  —  backing  him  up.     He's  a  respectable  man  of  his 
sort " 


406  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  He's  a  gentleman,"  said  Blandy. 

"  Put  it  that  way  if  you  like,"  said  Johnny.  "  I've 
known  some  that  weren't.  I'd  do  it  if  I  had  a  chance, 
give  you  my  word.  And  that  young  fellow  at  the  house 
—  Miss  Falkland's  brother  —  is  a  bit  young  for  the  job. 
You're  as  old  as  I  am,  aren't  you  ?  —  pretty  near." 

"  I  shall  do,"  said  Blandy.  "  All  you've  got  to  do,  is  to 
tell  me.  There's  nothing  you  should  be  thinking  of,  but 
one  thing,  to-day." 

"  I've  an  idea,"  said  Johnny,  dropping  into  his  chair, 
"  that  you  said  that  the  day  I  was  married.  But  I  didn't, 
I  thought  of  heaps  of  things.  And  for  all  that  I  got  mar- 
ried very  decently, —  no  thanks  to  you  or  Hertford.  .  .  . 
Blandy,  you  are  a  ripper.  Do  you  really  not  mind? 
There's  the  doctor,  of  course, —  or  Fox.  No,  not  Fox. 
Or  I  could  go  by  the  night  train." 

"  I  wish  you  would  stop  talking,"  said  Blandy  angrily. 
"  You'll  go  with  Mrs.  Ingestre  by  the  morning  train  as 
fixed,  no  nonsense.  I'll  follow  you  by  the  night  one. 
Beg  pardon,  Mr.  John." 

Johnny  laughed.  "  All  right,"  he  said,  "  only  I  didn't 
fix  it.  I'd  sooner  Mrs.  Ingestre  was  out  of  it,  that's  a 
fact.  She's  barely  fit.  Miss  Falkland's  all  right, —  she's 
fit  for  anything.  I've  been  telling  her  about  it.  And  she 
knows  Auberon,  so  that's  straight." 

Blandy  waited  now.  Such  things  as  were  within  his 
range,  he  could  do;  but  all  these  delicate  extras  were 
beyond  him.  His  master  as  usual  held  the  strings,  and 
was  straightening  them,  sitting  at  his  table. 

"  Look  here, —  come  close."  Blandy  came  to  the  table. 
"  This  is  what  I  am  writing  to  Auberon,  and  what  you 
shall  take.  He  knows  nothing,  at  present,  though  he  was 
getting  there,  being  smart,  when  I  saw  him;  and  he'll 
have  seen  some  of  the  people  by  now.  If  only  he  hadn't 
been  in  such  a  darned  hurry.  .  .  .  It'll  be  a  jar  for  him, 
for  certain.  You  can  count  on  that." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Blandy. 


STRETTO  407 

"  That  girl  was  poisoned,  not  drowned.     She  —  er  - 
said  so,  if  I'd  thought.     Some  narcotic, —  sleeping-mix- 
ture,—  laudanum  probably.     And  the  place  to  look  for 
her  is  not  in  the  water,  in  consequence, —  my  —  er  —  lit- 
erary instincts  threw  me  out, —  but  on  land." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Blandy. 

"Just  on  land,"  said  Johnny.  "Just  beyond  the 
bridge." 

"  Kettley  Bridge,  sir?" 

He  nodded.  "  The  bridge  that's  no  bridge.  Levin- 
son's  plantation,  probably.  Not  far  anyhow,  she  hadn't 
the  strength.  Quite  near  the  road.  I'm  as  sure  of  it  as 
if  I  had  seen  her  —  somehow." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Blandy:  sure  of  it  too. 

"  She  just  lay  down,  the  first  place  she  felt  safe  in," 
said  Johnny.  "  That's  how  I  see  it  —  now  —  I  may  be 
wrong.  Lord  help  her,"  he  added  suddenly,  his  head 
dropping  on  his  hands,  "  poor  little  soul !  " 

"  That's  Miss  Falkland,"  said  Blandy  to  himself :  a  bit 
of  wonderful  penetration,  born  of  his  love  for  Johnny. 
It  was  the  first  time, —  and  he  had  heard  most  of  the  dis- 
cussions,—  that  he  had  heard  his  master  speak  one  word 
of  pity  for  the  girl  he  suspected  of  having  taken  her  own 
life. 

As  for  Mrs.  Ingestre,  she  had  shown  disgust,  first  and 
last,  on  the  subject. 

VI 

Ursula  rose  that  morning  determined  to  do  all  things 
in  order  and  nicely,  as  she  best  knew  how.  On  an  occa- 
sion of  such  sober  state,  of  sufficient  grief,  with  two  well- 
bred  and  adaptable  young  people  like  the  Falklands  to 
assist  the  proceedings,  it  might  all  have  been  carried 
through  without  error  and  in  excellent  style:  but  John 
was  inconvenient. 

He  was  even  excessively  so,  more  than  usual.  He  be- 
gan by  turning  up  to  breakfast  at  the  house,  when  she 


408  THE  ACCOLADE 

had  reckoned  on  his  remaining  in  retirement  at  his  bunga- 
low. That  was  the  first  shock.  Next,  and  in  natural 
consequence,  there  was  not  breakfast  enough.  Miss 
Falkland  was  hungry  too,  as  it  happened,  but  John  was 
ravenous.  Between  them,  Ursula's  resources  were  taxed, 
since  she  had  arrested  her  household  economy  with 
trained  precision,  in  view  of  the  immediate  breaking  up 
of  the  party.  John  never  failed  to  be  ravenous  just  when 
her  arrangements  most  required  him  not  to  be,  that  went 
without  saying ;  but  this  particular  morning,  it  was  a  little 
improper  as  well.  So  was  his  easy  manner  of  conversing 
with  Mr.  Falkland, —  so  was  the  too-evident  fact  that  he 
had  been  bathing, —  so  were  his  clothes. 

Ursula  herself  came  down  in  black,  of  course,  a  sheet 
of  black,  though  her  husband  was  puzzled  where  she 
found  the  materials,  since  she  had  assured  him  two  nights 
since  that  she  had  none.  It  is  rather  startling  what 
women  can  do  in  these  ways, —  dyeing  themselves, —  it 
made  Johnny,  who  still  felt  sleepy,  think  vaguely  of  that 
picture  in  a  German  story-book  which  everyone  knows, 
in  which  a  large  ink-pot  takes  the  foremost  place.  Only 
Ursula's  face  and  hands  were  white  —  very  white.  She 
looked  nice,  he  freely  admitted,  whenever  he  glanced  that 
way.  She  had  seldom  looked  so  nice  in  his  memory. 
It  was  quite  a  pity  she  did  not  mourn  for  people, —  fairly 
indifferent  people, —  oftener.  He  could  have  spared  one 
or  two  of  her  relations  very  well. 

Johnny  did  not  say  this  last  aloud,  though  he  kindly 
congratulated  Ursula  after  breakfast.  He  had  the  art  of 
paying  compliments  with  effect  and  without  offense,  and 
she  was  not  immune  from  flattery.  Since  he  also 
strapped  her  boxes  for  her,  and  gave  her  more  than 
enough  money  for  all  her  extra  expenses,  Ursula  liked 
him  for  at  least  five  minutes.  He  was  distinctly  nice, 
helping  her  in  her  room.  But  it  did  not  last.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  cut  his  wife  out  with  all  the  servants  in  turn, 
just  when  she  most  wished  to  talk  to  them,  which  made 


STRETTO  409 

her  frantic  naturally.  There  is  nothing  a  woman  can  less 
well  bear  than  man's  interference  in  that,  her  peculiar 
province:  and  at  Routhwick,  John  was  always  doing  it. 
Having  had  an  intimate  conversation  with  the  house- 
keeper, who  had  known  his  mother  in  the  old  times,  and 
made  her  cry, —  if  John  did  not  make  the  servants  cry 
one  way,  it  was  another, —  he  actually  went  and  changed ; 
and  reappeared  looking  so  right  in  every  particular,  and 
so  eminently  what  Blandy  called  high-class  as  well,  that 
Ursula  could  not  but  approve  of  him  again.  If  John 
had  only  always  looked  like  that,  it  would  have  been 
purely  a  credit  to  belong  to  him. 

Finally,  when  Ursula  was  just  convinced  that  all  was 
well,  and  the  day's  preparations  nicely  completed,  he  made 
a  perfectly  extraordinary  commotion  in  the  hall,  a  few 
minutes  before  starting,  over  an  entirely  unimportant 
matter,  the  flowers  she  was  taking  to  London.  It  seemed 
the  gardener  had  done  something  wrong  about  them,  and 
so  John  was  using  the  worst  language  in  front  of  the  serv- 
ants and  in  the  hearing  of  poor  little  Miss  Falkland  too. 

Ursula  shut  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  where  poor 
little  Miss  Falkland  was,  for  safety,  and  went  to  take,  as 
it  was  the  right  his  wife  should  do,  her  share  of  the 
blame. 

It  was  nothing  in  the  world,  so  it  turned  out,  but  that 
the  gardener  had,  quite  naturally,  cut  all  the  little  yellow 
things  out  of  the  centers  of  the  autumn  lilies,  to  make 
them  white. 

"  They  always  do,"  explained  Ursula  patiently.  "  It's 
the  custom." 

"  Custom  be  hanged,"  said  Johnny,  only  he  did  not  say 
that.  "  What  right  has  he  got  to  meddle  with  the  flow- 
ers? I  told  him  to  cut  the  stalks." 

"  And  they  carry  better,"  pursued  Ursula  in  the  same 
mild,  hushed  voice.  "  He's  perfectly  right,  John.  No, 
I  did  not  tell  him  to  do  it, —  I  gave  no  orders.  I  suppose 
a  good  gardener  knows." 


410  THE  ACCOLADE 

John  said,  then  he  was  welcome  to  go  where  the  good 
gardeners  go  to,  only  by  the  rest  of  his  remarks,  it  did 
not  seem  to  be  quite  the  place.  He  was  ready  for  him  to 
go  to  several  places,  only  not  Routhwick.  He  would  not 
trouble  him  to  stay  there. 

"  Don't  be  absurd,"  said  Ursula,  several  times.  He  did 
not  really  mean  to  send  Holroyd  away,  who  had  been 
with  them  years.  "  They  look  perfectly  nice,  and  any- 
body can  see  what  they  are  meant  for.  That's  all  that 
matters,  surely." 

Johnny  said  he  did  not  want  to  carry  the  rubbish-heap 
to  London.  His  mother  had  never  cared  for  that. 

"  Hush !  "  said  Ursula,  shocked.  "  You  must  be  quiet, 
John.  The  whole  house  will  hear  you." 

"  Let  'em,"  said  Johnny.  "  And  see  they  obey  orders 
next  time,  and  not  cut  all  my  best  things  to  bits.  Mutila- 
tion, I  call  it.  What's  a  flower  without  its  antlers? 
What's  a  woman  without  her  hair?  Perhaps  you'll  see 
it  that  way,  Holroyd." 

Ursula  decided  to  smile,  as  the  least  of  evils.  "  They 
look  extremely  nice,  Holroyd,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  John's 
joking.  It's  all  right." 

She  hoped  it  would  be  sufficient  reproof  to  him  to  ad- 
mit that  he  could  be  joking,  on  such  a  theme,  at  such  a 
moment :  but  he  did  not  appear  reproved.  He  was  rather 
flushed  to  the  last,  and  short-tempered, —  he  snapped  even 
at  Miss  Falkland  when  she  said  good-by.  Mr.  and  Miss 
Falkland  were  going,  Ursula  had  told  her  household,  by 
the  later  train.  She  hoped  they  would  be  quite  comfort- 
able, and  really  hated  leaving  them.  She  was  full  of 
apologies,  especially  to  Harold,  but  she  was  sure  they 
understood. 

It  was  a  long  drive  to  Kettley  Station  by  Egstone,  and 
Johnny  forgot  his  grievance  against  the  gardener,  and  was 
quite  enjoying  the  air.  He  sat  opposite  his  wife,  having 
given  the  white  lilies  his  place  beside  her,  and  it  struck 


STRETTO  411 

Ursula,  being  at  such  close  quarters,  that  he  looked  tired. 
Fagged,  was  her  word.  She  saw  some  little  lines  in  his 
brow  that  she  had  never  noticed  before,  and  which  sur- 
prised her.  For  the  first  time  it  entered  her  mind  that 
John,  her  young  John,  could  ever  grow  old.  She  re- 
garded him  as  her  junior,  irresistibly,  and  treated  him  so, 
though  she  told  herself  at  fixed  intervals  that  his  age  was 
no  less  than  hers. 

The  whole  way  to  the  station, —  as  is  the  habit  of  hus- 
band and  wife  when  free  of  company  and  the  necessity 
of  talking, —  they  hardly  exchanged  a  word. 

"  Where's  Blandy, —  at  the  station  ?  "  asked  Ursula 
once. 

"  No,"  said  Johnny.  "  He's  coming  by  the  night 
train." 

She  was  surprised,  but  left  it.  Blandy  had  so  many 
uses,  that  it  was  waste  of  time  to  consider  what  he  might 
or  might  not  be  doing.  She  was  only  disappointed, 
lazily,  because  he  could  not  do  things  for  her  at  the  sta- 
tion. But  then,  John  would  be  there. 

After  a  time,  Ursula  told  him  what  a  nice  girl  Miss 
Falkland  was. 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny,  looking  at  the  view.  The  view 
was  no  view,  since  they  were  driving  through  the  plainest 
part  of  Egstone  town. 

"  It's  a  pity  she's  seen  so  little  of  you,"  said  Ursula. 

"  Egstone  Bank,"  said  Johnny  with  an  effort,  "  was 
built  by  William  the  Conqueror." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Ursula. 

"  I  was  only  keeping  it  up,"  said  Johnny.  He  contin- 
ued gazing  out  for  a  minute,  and  then  he  turned  and 
looked  at  her,  full  in  the  eyes.  Hers  dropped, —  she  also 
blushed  a  little. 

Nothing  else  happened  at  all  till  they  came  into  Kettley, 
and,  at  the  station  turn,  passed  the  post  office. 

"  Why,  there's  Mr.  Auberon ! "  said  Ursula,  really 
amazed. 


412  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Oh,  good,"  said  Johnny,  stirring.  "  Thank  goodness. 
Where?" 

"  In  the  post  office.  He  saw  us,  I  think.  Shall  I  stop 
the  man?" 

Johnny  had  already  nodded  to  "  the  man,"  who  had 
looked  round,  and  the  carriage  drew  up.  "  How  long 
have  we  got  ?  "  said  Johnny,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  Dash 
it  all !  Why  couldn't  you  leave  me  a  little  more  time  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  you  wanted  to  see  him  ?  "  said 
Ursula.  "  You  never  even  mentioned  he  was  in  the 
neighborhood."  She  was  offended, —  of  course.  He  had 
forgotten  she  was  bound  to  be. 

"Didn't  I?"  said  Johnny.  "All  right,— shut  up, 
Ursula." 

Mrs.  Ingestre  did  not  shut  up,  when  Mr.  Auberon,  who 
was  her  friend,  and  whose  people  her  people  had  known, 
approached  the  carriage.  Why  should  she?  He  was 
quite  a  nice  boy,  and  she  liked  him.  She  shook  hands 
with  him,  and  talked,  though  Johnny  could  have  slain  her, 
having  so  little  time.  Auberon's  forbearance  under  her 
futile  remarks,  on  this  occasion,  was  revolting.  He  had 
no  business  to  be  civil, —  he  ought  to  have  shot  her  or 
knocked  her  down. 

"  Did  Blandy  catch  you  ? "  said  Johnny  formally,  in 
Ursula's  presence,  though  he  had  no  doubt  of  it.  "  I 
launched  him  in  the  dark." 

"  He  caught  me  at  Egstone  Bank,"  said  Quentin.  "  I 
waited  there." 

"  In  time,  then,"  said  Johnny. 

"  In  good  time,  thanks.     We  got  through." 

"  I  expected  to  see  him,  not  you,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Did  you  want  him  ?  "  said  Quentin,  frowning. 

"  No, —  I  didn't  want  you,  that's  all." 

"  John,  how  polite  you  are !  "  said  Ursula :  and  so  on. 

"  I  had  to  come  in  to  catch  the  post,"  said  Quentin. 
"  And  I  had  a  thing  or  two  to  ask  as  well,  if  Mrs.  In- 
gestre would " 


STRETTO 


413 


"  She  will/'  said  Johnny.  "  Come  up  to  the  station, 
Auberon, —  I'll  meet  you  there."  The  carriage  moved. 
"  Now "  he  began. 

Ursula  broke  in,  indignant.  "  You  might  as  well  tell 
me,  John, —  it's  too  absurd.  Talking  over  me  like  that, 
as  if  I  was  a  child!  It  isn't  as  if  I  couldn't  guess  the 
business,  either.  And  I'm  every  bit  as  much  concerned 
about  that  girl  as  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny.  He  glanced  at  his  watch  again, 
and  snapped  it  with  decision.  "You're  perfectly  right, 
Ursula.  We've  rather  left  you  in  the  lurch  these  last 
days.  I've  been  rather  taken  up.  Now,  listen  here,  will 
you?  We  don't  happen  to  want  you,  at  the  station. 
Time's  short,  and  we  shall  do  best  alone." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Ursula.     Johnny  went  on. 

"  Since  he's  here  in  this  fashion,  it  can  only  mean  one 
thing, —  that  they  have  found  that  little  girl, —  and  that 
she's  dead." 

"  John  !  "  She  flinched  visibly, —  quailed.  He  saw  the 
sheaf  of  lilies  she  was  holding  shudder. 

"  Now, —  will  you  abstain  from  small-talk  to  him, — 
weather  and  so  on  ?  It's  very  nice  weather,  but  he  prob- 
ably knows  it,  and  he  has  about  as  much  as  a  man  can 
bear.  Do  you  quite  entirely  grasp  his  position?" 

Ursula,  blankly  gazing,  did  not,  the  least. 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  prompt  a  little.  That  kid  slew  her- 
self for  him, —  one  might  almost  say  to  spite  him, —  be- 
cause he  would  not  look  at  her.  I'll  make  no  comment 
on  that,  since  you  knew  her,  and  you're  a  woman.  .  .  . 
Now  he's  got  to  look  at  her, —  only  she's  dead.  No  fun." 

"  John !  "  she  flashed.     "  What  a  way  to  put  it." 

"  It's  nice  and  short,"  said  Johnny.  "  He  could  have 
got  clean  off, —  he's  no  earthly  call  to  disturb  himself. 
I  gave  him  the  chance,  at  least  three  times  over, —  but  he 
wouldn't.  See  that?" 

"  Yes,  of  course.     He  is  very  conscientious." 

"  Quite  so, —  we  agree.     Well,  now  he  has  to  face  an 


414  THE  ACCOLADE 

inquest,  and  the  filthy  talk  a  case  of  that  kind  always 
brings  up.  He  might  dodge  it  again,  but  he  intends  to 
stand  the  racket,  probably.  He  will  get  the  whole  of  it, 
since  I'm  not  there.  Do  you  quite  see  what  all  that 
means?  Do  you  know  him  at  all?" 

"  Of  course  I  do.  Much  better  than  you  do.  He's 
rather  good  at  business, —  he'd  manage  that  horrid  kind 
of  thing  quite  as  well  as  you." 

"  Thanks.  You  don't  know  him  the  least,  but  never 
mind.  That  kind  of  thing  would  suit  me  better  than 
him,  a  lot.  If  I'd  been  able  to  stop,  they  might  have  been 
—  er  —  persuaded  to  shoot  some  of  it  on  to  me, —  sav- 
ing your  presence,  Ursula.  What's  more,"  said  Johnny, 
"  I'd  have  let  'em, —  I  shouldn't  have  cared  two  figs." 

"  You  needn't  be  disagreeable,"  said  Ursula. 

"  I'm  trying  to  be  clear,"  said  Johnny,  "  against  time. 
It's  a  little  hard.  There's  just  one  thing  —  two  things  — 
that  console  me, —  make  it  possible  for  me  to  go  to  Lon- 
don this  morning  with  you,  'stead  of  to-night.  Blandy 
sat  on  me,  but  that's  not  what  I  mean.  One  is  —  it's 
Yorkshire  and  not  London, —  so  that  people  have  a  jollier 
sort  of  mind." 

"  Rubbish,"  said  Ursula.  "  People  are  just  the  same 
everywhere." 

"  The  other "  said  Johnny.  "  I'll  tell  you  the  other 

in  the  train  perhaps."  He  got  out.  "  Go  on,"  he  said, 
"  go  over.  I'll  stop  and  get  a  word  with  him.  Think 
you  can  manage  all  right,  or  shall  I  do  the  things  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  can  manage,"  said  Ursula  huffily.  "  I've 
traveled  alone  before.  Am  I  to  get  your  ticket  ?  " 

"  No.     I'll  get  both." 

"  They  won't  let  me  cross  without "  she  began ; 

but,  seeing  his  look,  she  broke  short,  and  went.  After  all, 
country  station  regulations  went  down  before  John, 
wherever  he  was  ;  and  this  station  above  all, —  and  on  this 
occasion  peculiarly.  All  the  Kettley  staff  met  Ursula,  her 
black  robes  and  her  white  flowers,  open-armed.  They 


STRETTO  415 

were  all  most  tender  of  her,  she  had  no  trouble  at  any 
point.  It  was,  in  its  way,  enjoyable,  a  royal  progress: 
only  it  would  have  been  better,  naturally,  had  her  hus- 
band shared.  But  John  persisted  in  inconvenience  to  the 
last,  turned  his  back  on  her,  and  talked  to  Quentin  Au- 
beron, —  about  that  nasty  affair. 

"  Shan't  we  go  across?  "  said  Quentin.  "  I  shall  make 
you  late." 

"  Dash  the  train !  "  said  John,  looking  him  sharply  over. 
But  he  was  unchanged,  almost.  He  was  not  a  person  who 
changed  much.  With  such  an  appearance  in  any  other 
man,  John  would  have  questioned  if  the  thing  could  be 
done, —  really  over.  In  this  man  he  did  not  question  it 
for  a  moment.  If  it  were  not  done,  he  would  not  be 
here. 

"  You  were  right,"  said  Quentin,  glancing  at  him  with 
his  cool  steel  eyes. 

"  You  found  her,  then?     Dead?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.     Some  days." 

"  Not  drowned,  then." 

"  No,  she  was  poisoned,  the  doctor  thinks.  Just  what 
you  said." 

"  Old  Darcy's  sleeping-mixture  ?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  That's  it,  bound  to  be.  How  did  you  hit  on  it  ? 
Really,"  said  Quentin,  hesitating  for  a  word, — "  it  stag- 
gered me." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Take  it  easy,  you  know,"  said 
Johnny.  "  Now  listen  a  minute.  I'm  far  more  in  fault 
than  you  are,  just  remember  that.  Keep  it  in  mind. 
Because  I  held  evidence  you  didn't, —  through  old  Darcy 
and  so  on, —  see?  If  I'd  not  been  fooling  over  other  af- 
fairs, personal  affairs,  I  ought  to  have  got  there, —  in  both 
senses.  I  just  had  time.  We  can  time  her  pretty  fairly, 
you  see,  because  of  the  bridge.  We  all  had  time  to  get 
over  that  night  and  save  her, —  I  did  go  over  once  myself. 
Only  we  driveled, —  threw  away  our  chances, —  I  give 
you  my  word," 


416  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  I'd  take  it,"  said  Quentin  slowly,  "  on  anything  else. 
You're  very  kind." 

Johnny  waited  again.  Yes,  that  meant  he  was  beat, 
that  his  brains  were.  His  body  was  not,  even  now.  He 
had  done  the  walk  to  Kettley  in  record  time,  simply  to 
get  facts  out  of  Ingestre,  finish  the  business,  bring  him- 
self up  to  date.  And  it  was  not  insensitiveness, —  he 
was  supremely  sensitive.  He  had  been  struck,  full, — 
wounded.  He  had  staggered, —  he  used  the  word.  But 
he  had  not  fallen :  he  had  pulled  up  again,  and  still  walked 
five  miles,  hit  the  post-time,  and  got  in  before  a  train. 

Johnny  felt,  once  more,  he  never  could  have  done  it. 
Struck  in  the  back  like  that,  spitefully,  unrighteously,  he 
must  have  gone  down.  He  would  have  lost  his  head, 
forgotten  himself,  failed  anyhow  to  come  to  the  scratch. 
But  then,  he  could  never  have  been  sure  he  was  clean  of 
reproach.  On  one  score  or  another,  either  of  tempting 
the  girl,  or  of  treating  her  poor  little  problems  carelessly, 
he  could  not  have  gone  scatheless  before  the  internal 
court,  whatever  callousness  he  might  pretend  externally. 
That  was  where  the  crux  lay,  that  was  where  this  boy 
scored  utterly.  Superb  self-respect,  real  dignity,  consist- 
ent kindness  too :  and  public  duty, —  that  was  what  he  was 
born  for.  And  this  frightful  vengeance  falling  on  him  — 
to  his  nature  it  was  frightful  —  unearned,  and  he  did  not 
curse  the  girl  in  her  grave !  The  contrary :  now  that  the 
great  stroke  had  fallen,  he  would  lend  her  his  own 
strength.  Everything  he  betrayed  in  that  short  inter- 
view,—  and  he  spoke  clearly  though  slowly, —  of  what 
he  had  done  and  would  do,  showed  up  those  facts  about 
him.  That  he  would  face  the  public  question,  with  the 
oblique  odium  it  must  throw  on  him,  in  the  common 
minds :  that  he  carried  all  the  weight  of  that  childish  ill- 
considered  crime  in  his  own  person:  that  he  honored  the 
dead.  He  was  Greek,  a  Greek  type, —  Johnny  regretted 
he  could  not  hear  him  at  that  inquest  at  Egstone,  just 
hear  him  tell  the  truth.  It  was  a  thousand  pities  he  had 


STRETTO  417 

only  four  minutes  to  know  him  better,  before  a  train! 

As  things  were,  he  could  only  try  to  be  even  with  him 
in  a  few  small  ways. 

"  I'm  sorry  I've  got  to  leave  you  like  this,"  he  said, 
"  but  my  people  have  orders,  and  they  are  to  take  yours. 
Blandy's  got  my  facts,  and  Falkland's  still  there  to  stand 
by  you,  you  won't  be  quite  alone.  I  think,"  said  Mr. 
Ingestre  in  his  royal  manner,  "  they  won't  bother  you 
much.  My  shanty  in  the  wood  is  at  your  service,  for 
yourself  —  or  anything.  It's  a  quiet  place.  Is  there  any- 
thing more  ?  " 

"Tell  me  how  you  got  there, —  guessed  it,"  Quentin 
said. 

"  Just  in  that  way,"  said  Johnny.  "  It  struck  me,  came 
to  me  suddenly,  she'd  be  looking  for  peace,  no  more, — 
to  get  away.  And  what  better  than  to  leave  a  broken 
bridge  behind  you?  Put  it  somebody  had  told  her  it 
would  go  in  the  night, —  that  somebody  I  never  found. 
Wouldn't  that  do?  I  thought  it  might,  at  the  time. 
Anyhow  I  sent  Blandy  to  warn  you  on  the  chance.  If 
you'd  waited,  I'd  have  come  along, —  but  as  things  stood, 
I  couldn't  risk  it." 

"  It's  first-class,"  said  Quentin. 

"  It  isn't,"  said  Johnny,  "  it's  common  sense.  All  those 
things  are.  One  might  rag  the  Psychical  snobs  about  it, 
but  it's  not  worth  it,  for  a  simple  thing  like  that.  .  .  . 
I'm  glad  it's  fixed,  at  least,  for  you  and  everybody.  It 
rather  sticks  in  your  throat  leaving  a  thing  like  that 
undone." 

"  So  it  does,"  said  Quentin.  "  I'd  sooner  know."  He 
added,  after  an  interval,  "There's  your  train." 

"  Is  it?  "  said  Johnny.  "  By  the  way,  Auberon,  I  told 
the  whole  to  Miss  Falkland,  I  thought  it  best.  Will  you 
—  er  —  excuse  me  ?  " 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Quentin,  his  eagle-eyes  looking 
up  the  line.  "  Look  here,  you'd  better  cut  and  let  me  get 
your  ticket,  hadn't  you?  I'll  bring  it  round." 


418  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  Two  tickets,"  said  Johnny  easily.  "  But  why  should 
you  fag?" 

"  I've  hardly  seen  Mrs.  Ingestre  yet,"  said  Quentin, 
faintly  smiling. 

"  This  train  stops  two  minutes,"  said  Johnny,  "  I  rather 
think  it  stops  for  us.  That's  hardly  long  enough  for  a 
call,  and  my  wife's  a  stickler  for  the  time-limit,  so  it 
won't  count.  Not  worth  it,  in  short,  Auberon.  I'll  get 
the  tickets." 

"  I'd  better,"  said  Quentin.  "  You're  making  her  anx- 
ious." 

;<  That  was  cheek,"  said  Johnny  to  himself  as  he  crossed 
the  line.  "  Common  cheek,  that  was." 

He  crossed  just  in  front  of  the  approaching  engine, 
with  the  entire  personnel  of  Kettley  Station  looking  at 
him  anxiously.  No  one  else  in  the  West  Riding  would 
have  been  allowed  to  start.  But  if  John  could  have  been 
killed  by  any  common  accident,  he  would  have  been 
killed  long  since.  He  got  over  very  comfortably,  with- 
out hurrying  himself,  and  Ursula  sat  well  back  on  the 
station  bench,  so  as  not  to  see. 

Two  minutes  after,  Mr.  Auberon,  who  also  seemed  to 
enjoy  dodging  trains,  brought  Ursula's  ticket  to  her,  and 
bade  her  a  nice  good-by.  She  had  always  said  he  was  a 
pleasant-mannered  boy,  if  rather  distant  and  didactic. 
He  had  nearly  always  been  helpful  handing  things  when 
he  came  to  call. 

"  And  of  course,  she's  to  have  any  of  the  flowers,"  said 
John  to  Quentin  hastily  at  the  last,  the  lilies  in  his  wife's 
arms  reminding  him. 

Helena,  he  meant,  was  to  have  them  for  Jill. 
"  Stretto,"  that  was, —  the  finishing  chord,  bringing  the 
two  girls,  the  sinless  and  the  sinning,  together.  But  as 
he  sank  back  on  the  seat  again,  his  eyes  strayed  to  his 
mother's  lilies  with  persistent,  frowning  discontent. 

Helena,  at  least,  would  not  maul  the  flowers  about. 


FINALE 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  " 

A  WEEK  after  her  mother-in-law's  funeral,  Ursula  re- 
tired to  her  German  baths,  to  make  the  best  of  what  was 
left  of  the  season.  This  would  have  astonished  nobody, 
since  Ursula  was  known  never  to  give  up  a  plan  she  had 
once  proposed,  unless  the  heavens  fell  and  prevented  her 
from  performing  any  part  of  it.  She  was  a  terribly 
orderly  person.  But,  just  as  the  hunting-season  at  home 
was  opening,  to  the  overpowering  amazement  of  his  fam- 
ily, Johnny  went  out  and  joined  her;  and  after  that  re- 
mained abroad  with  her  the  whole  winter  long. 

The  accounts  Ursula  had  written  of  herself  would  have 
disturbed  nobody,  had  she  continued  alone,  for  like  many 
another  morally  weak  woman,  her  courage  in  health 
matters  approached  the  heroic.  No  one  would  ever  have 
gathered  from  Ursula  personally  that  she  was  less  than 
well.  However,  it  could  only  be  presumed  by  Johnny's 
remarkable  proceeding  that  she  had  let  him  gather  it, — 
and  he  certainly  had  more  practice  in  reading  between  the 
lines  of  her  staid  epistles  than  others  of  the  family.  Any- 
how, he  went. 

His  accounts  of  her  threw  light  at  once.  He  said  she 
was  quite  bad,  several  times.  What  it  was  he  could  not 
make  out,  and  it  seemed  the  doctors  would  not  help  him. 
He  used  violent  expressions  about  doctors'  dodging,  the 
senseless  jargon  they  cultivate,  which  is  alike  in  all  lan- 
guages, and  like  no  real  language  under  the  sun ;  and  he 
was  powerless  to  extract  anything  from  his  wife  her- 
self. But  that  he  was,  if  not  anxious  about  her,  at 
least  interested,  became  increasingly  evident,  and  his 
family  at  home  spent  their  intellect  and  ingenuity  in  vain, 
in  trying  to  account  for  it. 

421 


422  THE  ACCOLADE 

To  begin  with,  there  was  no  misunderstanding  him. 
"  What's  she  after  now  ?  " —  was  a  common  comment  on 
Ursula's  letters,  but  they  never  had  the  excuse  of  uncer- 
tainty with  John's.  He  wrote  himself  down,  as  he  spoke 
himself  out,  in  life.  More  clearly  even:  he  weeded  his 
thoughts  of  obstruction  before  he  wrote  them, —  the 
arriere-pensee  did  not  tangle  the  roots  of  every 
phrase. 

To  the  first  and  obvious  solution  of  his  preoccupation 
in  this  most  unexpected  quarter,  which  occurred  to  Mr. 
Ingestre  and  his  mother  simultaneously,  and  which  they 
both,  in  their  different  disagreeable  fashions,  threw  at 
Johnny's  head,  he  returned  an  impatient  negative. 
There  was  no  hope  of  a  child,  and  they  could  stop  talk- 
ing of  it.  Ursula  was  worrying,  that  was  all,  trying  to 
kill  herself  over  some  inanity,  as  lots  of  women  do,  and 
would  not  tell  him  a  thing  about  it.  He  thought  she  dis- 
liked him,  he  added  casually  once. 

"  It's  curiosity,"  said  old  Mrs.  Ingestre  suddenly. 
"  I've  felt  it  at  times,  with  Ursula,  myself.  It  puts  him 
out,  he  shouldn't  know  how  she  works,  so  as  to  instruct 
us  all.  That's  just  like  John." 

"  No  one  ever  knew  yet  how  women  work,"  said  Mr. 
Ingestre,  throwing  the  letter  angrily  aside,  "  least  of  all 
the  women  themselves." 

"  I  make  an  exception  for  professional  women,"  said 
Mrs.  Ingestre.  "  Otherwise,  I  quite  agree." 

By  professional  women,  she  meant  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession, as  her  son  knew.  He  asked  how  she  argued  it : 
but  she  had  grown  confused  a  trifle,  so  he  had  to  help  her. 
"  You  mean  you  have  to  know  yourself,"  he  said,  "  before 
you  can  take  on  another  character." 

"  That's  about  what  I  mean,  John.  I  should  have 
thought  it  hardly  worth  the  pains  to  say." 

"  Then  you  argue  Johnny  knows  himself,  and  Ursula 
doesn't?" 

"Johnny's  all  right,"  grumbled  the  old  lady.     "He's 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  "      423 

good  material."  Nothing  would  ever  make  her  grant 
Johnny  was  more. 

"Do  you  think  he's  studying  Ursula  professionally?" 
said  Mr.  Ingestre,  amused. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  Didn't  I  say  so,  at  least  five 
minutes  ago  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  you  meant  that  by  his  curiosity.  Well,  in 
my  opinion,  he's  set  himself  a  thankless  task." 

"  You  used  to  like  her,"  said  Mrs.  Ingestre. 

"  She  gives  him  more  trouble  than  she's  worth,"  said 
her  son.  "  If  she's  going  off  her  head  into  the  bar- 
gain   " 

"  Who  said  she  was  going  off  her  head  ?  " 

This  excited  Mrs.  Ingestre  very  much  for  a  time,  but 
unluckily  it  was  again  extinguished  by  a  flat  negative  in 
Johnny's  next  clear  letter.  Ursula  was  all  there,  he  said, 
and  was  keeping  his  accounts  for  him.  He  was  going  off 
his  head  rapidly,  owing  to  the  perpetual  interference  and 
particular  idiocy  of  his  relations. 

Next,  the  Ingestres  adopted  a  theory  that  Ursula  was 
jealous  of  little  Miss  Falkland.  They  rapidly  added  to  it 
that  she  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  being  so,  since  little 
Miss  Falkland  had  visited  at  Routhwick,  and  (by  the 
dowager)  that  it  certainly  served  those  Army  people 
right. 

With  exquisite  tact  and  courtesy,  they  again  flung  both 
theory  and  accusation  at  the  head  of  the  son  and  heir, 
in  at  least  two  brilliant  and  offensive  letters. 

Johnny  did  not  reply  at  all, —  proving  no  doubt  that  the 
shot  had  got  home,  or  else  that  he  had  suddenly  found 
another  amusement.  His  next  letter  home,  if  it  could  be 
called  a  letter,  was  a  list  of  remarks  to  his  tailor,  to  be 
conveyed,  and  possibly  translated,  by  one  of  his  plain 
aunts. 

As  for  his  handsome  father  and  grandmother,  they 
were  content  for  a  time,  and  quiet.  Everybody  knew 
about  jealousy,  and  the  only  surprising  thing  was  that 


424  THE  ACCOLADE 

Johnny  should  be  put  out  about  such  a  trifle,  incidental 
in  all  their  lives.  However,  he  seemed  to  be  calming 
down. 

Then  old  Mrs.  Ingestre  traveled  out  to  take  the  sun  at 
Biarritz  in  January,  and  met  them.  She  wrote  home  at 
once  to  say  Ursula  was  ill. 

Ursula  remained  simply  ill,  for  weeks,  no  details  added : 
weeks  during  which,  since  his  grandmother  was  present, 
Johnny,  who  seemed  to  be  a  little  tired  of  Ursula,  went 
off  with  Jem  Hertford  to  Switzerland.  During  this 
period,  the  young  Mrs.  Ingestre  and  the  old  were  tcte-a- 
tete,  and  the  head  of  the  family  in  London  rubbed  his 
hands;  for  his  mother's  letters  to  him  had  exactly  the 
same  degree  of  violent  impatience  that  Johnny's  had  had 
at  the  previous  date.  She  could  make  neither  head  nor 
tail  of  Ursula,  and  she  was  furious  about  it.  She  said 
her  grandson's  temper  must  be  saintly,  ever  to  have  stood 
such  a  stupid  little  thing  at  all. 

When  she  returned  to  London,  the  old  lady  said  ir- 
ritably that  the  girl  must  be  in  love, —  she  could  see  no 
other  way  of  it:  she  was  tired  of  the  whole  business. 
This  was  all  very  well,  and  even  very  conceivable  in 
theory;  but  they  sought  heaven  and  earth  to  find  any- 
body at  all  plausible  for  Ursula  to  be  in  love  with,  in  vain. 
There  was  nobody,  such  was  the  life  she  had  led;  espe- 
cially since  the  Auberon  boy  had  broken  off  again,  and 
was,  by  society's  strong  presumption,  attached  henceforth 
to  the  Falkland  girl.  That  string  to  Ursula's  rather 
feeble  bow  was  broken.  Besides,  he  had  never  seemed  to 
attract  her  seriously,  and  all  the  conversations  the  dow- 
ager had  ever  managed  to  overhear  had  been  extremely 
pious  and  impersonal.  So  finally  the  clever  old  lady,  her 
real  penetration  at  a  loss,  had  to  abandon  the  idea,  and  was 
mightily  cross  in  consequence. 

"  And  how's  Johnny  ? "  said  Mr.  Ingestre,  when  he 
happened  to  remember. 

Johnny,  said  his  grandmother  sardonically,  was  mourn- 


"AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING"      425 

ing  in  retirement.  Being  pressed  as  to  what  that  meant, 
she  said  that  Johnny  was  a  rogue,  getting  a  woman  old 
enough  to  be  his  mother  to  make  a  public  fool  of  herself 
about  him,  for  the  amusement  of  young  Hertford,  and  a 
set  of  smart  American  people. 

This  allusion  to  Lady  Ruabon  and  the  Clewers  diverted 
Mr.  Ingestre  for  a  time,  but  not  for  long.  Johnny  was  as 
usual,  was  all  it  came  to.  Ursula  was  really  more  inter- 
esting; for  Mr.  Ingestre  could  not  but  feel,  if  the  case 
proved  worth  the  attention  to  that  extent,  both  of  his 
mother,  and  of  his  son,  it  would  be  likely  sooner  or  later 
to  capture  his  own  as  well. 

When  Ursula  came  to  Johnny  and  Jem  in  Switzerland, 
she  was  better:  and  even  joined,  with  propriety,  in  some 
of  their  amusements.  Not  all,  because  she  had  not  the 
strength.  The  air  of  the  place  they  had  chosen  at  random 
above  Montreux  seemed  to  suit  her,  and  so,  as  long  as  Mr. 
Hertford's  holiday  lasted,  they  stayed  on.  Mr.  Hertford 
should  have  been  representing  a  section  of  his  native  town 
in  the  councils  of  his  nation  :  but  at  the  Christmas  election, 
his  native  town's  section  had  chucked  him  out,  because  a 
Labor  candidate  with  convictions  had  turned  up  there. 
The  newcomer  was  quite  a  good  little  fellow,  according  to 
Mr.  Hertford,  with  lots  of  ambition  and  ingenuity,  and  a 
literary  taste;  and  though  he  did  not  address  Mr.  Hert- 
ford's constituents  in  quite  such  a  competent  fashion  as 
himself,  had  just  managed  to  outbid  him  in  the  political 
auction,  and  by  splitting  up  the  parties,  had  captured  the 
seat.  He  was  a  thought  too  impetuous,  though,  Mr.  Hert- 
ford confided  to  Johnny  on  the  ice,  and  would  prob- 
ably overdo  it:  whereupon  the  community  of  Cranford 
West,  tired  of  their  bargain,  would  turn  to  Jem  again  with 
penitence  and  tears.  Pending  this  desirable  consumma- 
tion, Mr.  Hertford,  M.P.,  could  skate  in  Switzerland:  and 
did  so,  to  universal  admiration. 

When  Hertford  was  recalled  to  London,  Johnny  and 
Ursula  had  a  domestic  interval;  and  during  that  time, 


426  THE  ACCOLADE 

having  little  but  her  under  his  eyes,  he  began,  as  he  would 
have  said,  to  get  there.  He  simply  could  not  help  it,  his 
grandmother  was  right.  Having  no  other  human  mate- 
rial, he  studied  her.  Up  to  the  date  of  that  extraordinary 
matter  of  the  printed  fabrication,  he  had  never  found  her 
interesting ;  since  that  date  he  had  done  so,  now  and  then. 
He  wondered  what  was  really  wrong  with  her,  all  the 
while  she  was  acting  under  his  eyes,  as  she  thought,  her 
normal  admirable  self.  He  was  no  believer  in  the  well- 
known  phrases  about  nervous  depression  —  which  meant 
nothing  at  all, —  mental  strain  —  of  which  Ursula  was  not 
capable, —  or  periods  of  reaction  from  the  same  —  which 
for  the  same  reason  was  out  of  court.  He  believed  an 
idee  fixe  was  hampering  her,  blocking  even  her  ordinary 
little  round  of  thought ;  and  smart  as  he  was,  he  put  it 
side  by  side  in  his  mind,  for  some  time,  with  that  other 
inexplicable  incident  of  the  written  lie,  before  he  suddenly 
jumped  at  the  connection  between  the  two.  When  he  did 
reach  the  truth,  he  could  only  be  amazed  at  not  having 
thought  of  it  sooner, —  this  being  Johnny's  commonest 
way  of  surprising  himself. 

The  'fact  that  one  evening  when  they  were  together 
alone  they  got  upon  the  subject  of  Jill  Jacoby  and  her 
tragic  little  story  reminded  Johnny  of  the  fact  that  they 
had  never  talked  it  over  in  company.  Ursula  had  never 
led  that  way  of  her  own  accord,  and  he  was  rather  glad, 
since  he  preferred  to  keep  Auberon's  counsel.  Yet  it  was, 
when  you  came  to  think  of  it,  rather  unnatural,  since  it 
was  one  of  their  few  common  interests  in  the  past. 

That  evening  Johnny  led  into  the  subject,  for  the  reason 
that  it  had  come  up  during  the  day ;  quite  casually  during 
an  afternoon  expedition  he  had  found  himself  discussing 
it.  Some  fellow  who  haunted  the  Geneva  district  in 
winter  commonly,  and  knew  most  of  the  English  hotels 
near  the  lake,  had  once  heard  a  remarkable  child  recite  at 
one  of  them.  Concerning  the  child,  Johnny's  artistic 
curiosity  had  been  awakened,  and  he  had  decided  pri- 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  "      427 

vately,  on  pressing  the  man,  that  it  must  have  been  Jill. 
He  had  even  picked  up  a  fragment  of  her  earlier  history. 
She  had  not  been  lame  in  those  days,  apparently ;  she  had 
hurt  her  knee  in  an  accident  later.  She  had  been  a  small, 
very  pretty  girl,  an  elf,  with  strange  eyes  and  long  hair 
and  a  weird  beautiful  voice.  But  it  was  the  man  de- 
scribed as  attached  to  her  that  clinched  the  case,  for  it 
was  certainly  Jacoby.  It  agreed  with  all  the  facts  about 
Jacoby  Johnny  had  ever  heard. 

Since  Ursula  knew  things  about  the  Jacoby s  too,  he 
communicated  with  her  to  get  her  agreement.  He  wanted 
to  be  agreed  with,  and  having  heard  the  evidence,  Ursula 
did  so  quietly.  It  was  probable,  she  said.  Thence 
Johnny  diverted  to  Jill's  later  history,  and  discussed  the 
theme  lazily  a  bit.  Once  launched  on  it,  Ursula,  who  had 
avoided  it  hitherto,  seemed  rather  inclined  to  cling.  She 
pressed  for  an  explanation  of  the  girl's  extraordinary 
idea  in  killing  herself, —  why  should  she,  after  all,  when 
she  had  good  friends  and  a  comfortable  post? 

Johnny  was  tiresome,  and  would  not  answer ;  so  Ursula 
proceeded  to  enumerate  Jill's  friends  and  resources. 
Herself,  for  instance :  Celia  Havant,  who  was  a  capable 
woman  in  her  way :  Miss  Darcy,  who,  though  a  silly  old 
thing,  was  kind  enough :  Quentin  Auberon  and  his  sister, 
both  "  interested  " :  and  even  John's  actress-woman  had 
talked  about  her,  asked  about  her,  if  you  came  to  that. 

Johnny  was  still  more  tiresome,  and  made  frivolous 
comments  on  the  list  instead  of  helping  properly.  Ursula 
grew  fretful,  and  since  Johnny  really  feared  to  worry 
her  in  certain  moods,  he  dropped  his  levity. 

"  Oh  Lord,"  he  said  at  last,  being  prodded  by  Ursula 
to  account  for  the  obvious,  "  she  was  a  woman  and  an 
artist,  and  they're  the  only  logical  people  on  this  earth." 

"  I  thought  you  always  said  women  were  illogical," 
said  Ursula. 

"  Not  artist-women,"  said  Johnny.  "  They're  the  best 
kind." 


428  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  But  why  should  it  be  logical  to  kill  herself  ?  It's 
very  wrong." 

"  Oh  yes, —  so  was  the  French  Revolution, —  beastly." 
He  leant  back  and  looked  impatient.  "  I  wonder  you 
don't  see  it.  There  she  was,  only  fit  for  one  profession, 
and  crippled,  knocked  out.  That  might  be  enough  alone. 
Well,  put  it  she's  in  love  with  a  man  in  addition,  and 
can't  get  him " 

"Why  can't  she?" 

"  Well,  put  it  she  supposes  she  can't.  Say  she's  a 
moral  scruple " 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  John.  Moral  scruples, —  a  girl  like 
that." 

"  'Course  they're  absurd.  I  said  so  lately."  He  shifted 
his  position  again.  "  Anyhow,  Auberon  would  put  any 
girl  off, —  sit  on  her, —  stare  her  down.  Confound  him," 
said  Johnny  fervently. 

"  Well,  but  naturally,"  argued  Ursula.  "  It  would  be 
his  duty,  if  he  didn't  care  for  her:  and  if," — she  added 
uncertainly, — "  if  he  was  all  but  engaged." 

Silence  from  Johnny. 

"  She  might  have  heard  of  that,"  said  Ursula  presently, 
working.  Still  silence.  He  did  not  help  her.  He  was 
thinking,  biting  his  hand. 

"  Miss  Darcy  might  have  mentioned  it,  you  know.  It 
was  talked  of.  It  had  got  about." 

He  looked  at  her  once,  oddly.  She  was  distinctly 
white,  but  continued  bravely. 

"  Suppose  she'd  heard.  Is  that  what  you  mean  —  she'd 
reason  from  ?  Logically  ?  " 

"  I  give  you  my  word,"  he  said.  "  I'd  not  thought  of 
that.  You're  more  logical  than  I  am, —  sharper  anyhow. 
But  there  was  enough  without  it,"  he  added,  obviously 
with  an  effort. 

Ursula  moistened  her  lips,  worked  on,  and  said  no 
more.  It  was  awkward  and  unfinished,  like  all  their  in- 
tercommunication at  this  time, —  but  he  saw  light  in  the 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  "      429 

region  where  he  had  been  groping,  all  the  same.  A  shaft 
of  light  upon  Ursula's  inner  working  reached  him.  That 
was  where  she  was,  was  it  ?  Could  it  be  ?  What  a  singu- 
lar trick  of  fate !  Yet  why  not,  after  all?  —  it  was  quite 
a  reasonable  train  of  deduction  on  her  side.  Rather 
notably  reasonable,  for  what  he  expected  of  her, —  sharp, 
as  he  said.  That  paper,  in  which  her  printed  lie  ap- 
peared, was  just  the  sort  of  paper  old  Darcy  would  read. 
Put  it  that  she  had  read,  noticed  the  paragraph,  and  pur- 
posely mentioned  the  fact  of  Auberon's  engagement  to 
the  girl,  hoping  to  settle  once  for  all  her  unsettled  roving 
little  mind.  Old  Darcy  had  guessed  she  was  in  love  with 
the  man,  after  all,  probably  some  time  back, —  she  was 
cute  enough  to  guess  before  anybody, —  before  Auberon 
himself.  Well  then,  what  would  be  her  natural  course 
in  the  state  of  things,  feeling  herself  the  girl's  director? 
Exactly  that, —  to  extinguish  the  hope,  with  the  distrac- 
tions to  which  it  gave  rise,  if  she  had  the  opportunity. 

It  was  queer,  on  Johnny's  word.  He  nearly  wrote  off 
then  and  there  to  Miss  Darcy  to  ask.  He  refrained  anew, 
though,  because  in  his  real  kindness  of  heart  he  had  never 
disturbed  his  mother's  old  friend  very  deeply  about  the 
business,  especially  since  the  distress  occasioned  by  his 
mother's  death  had  diverted  her  naturally  from  the  sub- 
ject. The  "  bearded  one,"  he  thought,  might  so  easily 
reproach  herself  for  things  she  had  or  had  not  done  by 
that  girl:  and  first  and  last,  she  had  been  kinder  to  the 
poor  kid  than  any  one,  that  was  the  fact. 

So  the  only  person  Mr.  John  Ingestre  did  write  to  was 
his  grandmother, —  because  he  wanted  to  score.  He  told 
his  grandmother,  prematurely,  that  of  course  he  knew  all 
about  Ursula  by  this  time,  and  was  surprised  she  should 
be  still  harping  on  the  question.  Ursula  was  all  right. 
She  only  needed  ragging  a  little, —  the  proper  sort  of 
ragging, —  his  sort;  he  just  needed  time  to  screw  her  up 
to  concert  pitch ;  and  wipe  the  eye  of  the  medical  pro- 
fession. After  which  various  proceedings  he  would  bring 


430  THE  ACCOLADE 

his  wife  back  to  London  as  bucked  and  bean-fed  as  any 
of  his  precious  family  could  desire. 

It  was  a  particularly  impertinent  letter,  full  of  the  kind 
of  slang  which,  since  she  could  not  follow  it,  his  grand- 
mother most  disliked,  and  calculated  to  make  her  wish 
that  Johnny  was  half  his  age,  so  that  he  could  be  properly 
rewarded  for  it;  but  then  Johnny  was  in  exceptionally 
high  spirits  when  he  wrote  it,  having  been  successful  on 
the  ice  that  day. 

However,  having  made  these  rash  promises  on  paper, 
it  was  of  course  advisable  to  carry  them  out,  which  was 
considerably  more  difficult  than  writing  them,  and  even 
exacted  a  real  effort  at  times. 

Johnny  "  ragged  "  Ursula,  for  some  weeks,  in  various 
Experimental  fashions,  and  she  took  it  differently  accord- 
mg  to  her  health  and  mood,  but  generally  speaking  she 
>eemed  to  like  it  rather.  That  was  all  to  the  good,  but  no 
more  than  Johnny  expected.  After  all,  when  he  really 
put  his  back  into  it,  he  could  always  get  the  attention  of 
^ny  woman,  even  hers.  He  was  simply  trying  to  get  her 
attention,  rather  a  difficult  job  just  now,  for  she  was 
vague.  Having  fixed  it,  centered  it,  so  to  speak,  on  him- 
self, there  was  more  chance  of  getting  to  work  later,  on 
other  things. 

But  events  in  life  never  fall  out  according  to  one's 
planning, —  Johnny  had  found  this,  that  he  could  dispose 
almost  anything  human  to  his  taste,  sooner  or  later,  but 
not  the  incidents  of  his  career.  They  all  seemed  to 
tumble  anyhow  and  upside-down. 

Ursula  took  him  badly  by  surprise  when  the  crisis  came, 
—  she  frightened  him,  gave  him  a  real  shock.  For  no 
winter  sporting  in  healthful  air,  fine  feeding  nor  vigorous 
flirting,  could  weed  out  that  weak  spot  in  Johnny,  his 
woman's  nerves. 

She  came  behind  him  at  midnight,  in  their  private 
sitting-room  at  the  hotel  at  a  moment  when  he  was  not 
reading  but  reflecting  in  his  chair.  His  hands  were  across 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  "      431 

his  eyes.  He  had  got  rather  deep  into  reflection,  one  of 
those  haunting  visions  of  another  life, —  his  real  life, — 
that  obsessed  him  in  solitude.  He  was  just  as  bad  as 
Ursula  secretly,  he  admitted  it  at  times  like  these.  He 
was  obsessed,  and  hopelessly.  Helena  was  in  him,  in  the 
center  of  him :  he  saw,  felt  her  everywhere :  pictured  her 
fur-clad  with  him  on  the  ice,  pushed  her  lovely  supple 
form  up  the  mountain-paths,  teased  her  delightfully  under 
the  green  boughs  on  Christmas  Eve,  held  her  in  his  arms 
at  midnight,  as  he  had  once  —  once  only  —  his  weird  fate 
had  dropped  that  marvelous  moment  from  the  skies. 

And  Ursula  came  into  his  dream,  spoke  behind  him, 
and  spoke,  as.  Helena  once  had  done,  a  single  word, —  one 
syllable, —  his  name. 

"  John !  "  she  said. 

But  such  a  tone!  Never,  even  on  the  stage,  had  he 
heard  such  a  tone  upon  a  woman's  voice.  Ursula's  voice, 
too,  which  as  an  organ  was  weak  and  impoverished,  held 
no  sweet  or  impassioned  range  of  expression. 

He  sat  up  and  turned  about  in  terror,  ready  for  any- 
thing: and  there  she  was,  a  very  ghost  with  her  loose 
fair  hair,  in  her  flowing  faint-blue  gown.  Again,  no  stage 
could  have  supplied  a  figure  to  match  her,  for  haunting 
fear  and  desperate  remorse:  —  yet  she  was  no  actress, 
she  cut  a  wretched  figure  always  on  the  stage.  She  was 
just  being  herself  for  the  minute,  her  own  small-spirited 
uncertain  self,  whose  presence  he  felt  under  her  admirable 
outer  aspect,  day  by  day. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said  sharply.  "  I  say, —  are  you 
ill?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Can't  you  sleep  ?  "  insisted  Johnny.  "  You'll  be  all 
right.  Come  and  sit  down  a  little, —  get  warm.  .  .  . 
Lord,"  he  added,  with  a  difficult  laugh,  "  you  startled 
me." 

She  came  a  little  closer  at  the  laugh,  and  her  lips 
moved. 


432  THE  ACCOLADE 

"  What's  that?  "  said  Johnny,  suddenly  alert.  "  What 
did  you  say?  I  say,  just  say  that  again,  would  you 
mind?" 

She  said  it  again,  being  helpless,  now  close  at  his  side. 
Murder. 

"  Oh,  my  prophetic  soul !  "  thought  Johnny.  "  Now  for 
it."  He  held  out  his  warm  hand,  and  took  her  cold  wrist. 
"  Ursula,"  he  said,  in  a  pleasant  tone,  "  don't  be  a  little 
fool." 

"John!" 

"  Well,  you  are.  You're  thinking  of  Auberon's  so- 
called  engagement, —  which  wasn't  one, —  ain't  you? 
And  its  effects  on  that  infant  suicide  ? "  She  nodded 
faintly.  "Just  so.  Well  then,  you  are  one, —  what  I 
said.  As  if  a  female  of  that  kind  ever  regards  engage- 
ments and  marriages  !  —  they  hardly  know  there  are  such 
things.  You're  getting  mixed  with  your  own  lot,  I  may 
mention.  Her  sort's  not  like  that." 

"  How  do  you  —  know  ?  "  She  looked  awfully  ill,  cer- 
tainly, as  she  gazed  down  at  him. 

"  Never  you  mind,"  said  Johnny. 

"  No,  but  tell  me.     Don't  —  joke." 

He  had  had  time  to  consider.  "  I  know  from  her  jour- 
nal, for  one  thing.  There's  written  testimony  for  you. 
Unluckily,"  said  Johnny  pensively,  "  the  journal's  torn  up, 
and  burnt, —  in  my  grate  at  Routhwick.  Only  you  can 
take  my  word." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  mechanically,  as  he  looked  round  at 
her. 

"  Jolly  glad  to  hear  it, —  you  didn't  always.  Never 
mind.  Miss  What's-her-name,  Jill,  put  everything  into 
that  journal,  unluckily.  Personally,  I  never  read  such 
stuff.  If  she  had  ever  seen  the  thing  you're  thinking  of, 
the  printed  thing, —  or  heard  of  it  even, —  wouldn't  she 
have  flared  for  pages  on  the  subject?  'Course  she  would- 
Nothing  she'd  have  enjoyed  more.  Nothing  she'd  have 
liked  better  than  having  such  a  good  excuse  for  tearing 


"AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING"      433 

—  er  —  Miss  Falkland's  eyes  out,  and  his,  and  Darcy's  — 
all  of  ours, —  anybody's " 

"  Then  —  she  didn't."  Ursula  frowned.  She  was  fol- 
lowing all  she  knew,  he  could  see :  doing  her  very  best  to 
follow. 

"  She  didn't,  that's  all.  Nowhere.  Never  alluded  to 
it.  Consequently,"  said  Johnny  in  his  crispest  tone  and 
best  elocution,  "  she  never  heard.  And  if  she'd  heard, 
which  she  didn't,  she'd  have  heard  it  contradicted, 
wouldn't  she?  Yes.  And  if  you'd  only,  ever,  remember 
things  I  say,  you'd  remember  I  said  before  she  had  reason 
enough  to  —  er  —  end  herself  as  it  was.  More  than 
reason.  About  twice  too  much.  I'd  have  done  it  for 
much  less " 

" John ! " 

"If  I'd  been  in  her  shoes,"  said  Johnny.  "  I  never  met 
a  girl  I  respected  for  a  kind  of  straightforward  thinking 
like  that  girl.  I  only  wish  you  thought  half  as  straight." 

"I  might  be  —  dead  by  now  if  I  did,"  said  Ursula, 
smiling  wanly.  Still,  it  was  a  smile.  She  had  drawn  her 
hand  from  him,  and  was  warming  it  with  the  other,  nerv- 
ously. Johnny  gazed  at  her  a  minute  fixedly, —  he  was 
still  sitting  up  in  his  chair. 

"  Witty,  that  was,"  he  informed  her.  "  Something  like 
a  joke.  You  oughtn't  to  make  jokes,  it's  not  your  line, — 
specially  on  serious  subjects.  .  .  .  Now,  do  go  to  bed, 
and  keep  warm,  and  drop  coming  in  to  startle  me.  You 
startle  me  when  you  play  the  fool  like  that.  I'm  —  er  — 
used  to  your  behaving  yourself,  especially  towards  mid- 
night. See  ?  " 

"  I'm  —  sorry,"  said  Ursula,  trying  to  smile  again.  She 
did  not  manage  it,  and  seemed  incapable  of  saying  more. 
She  stood  by  him  some  seconds  longer,  and  retired.  As 
soon  as  she  was  gone,  Johnny  dropped  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Lord  —  save  me  for  a  liar!  "  he  murmured,  his  dark 
eyes  wide  and  innocent  as  he  gazed  at  the  lamp.  He  pro- 
ceeded after  a  second's  helplessness  — "  And  a  bad  liar, 


434  THE  ACCOLADE 

what's  more.     I  went  back  on  myself  once,  at  least.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  it  may  not  have  been  there,  but  I  didn't  read  it 

to  see  if  it  wasn't.     Dash  this  language, —  do  I  mean  that.? 

I  never  read  it  to  ascertain  it  wasn't.     I  never  made  sure. 

I  might  have,  if  I'd  thought  —  but  how  the  deuce  was  a 

fellow  ever  to  guess " 

He  stuck,  mouth  open,  and  remained  gazing  at  the  light 

for  a  time. 

"  Murder,"  he  said.     "  Jolly  nasty  thing.     Poor  girl." 
After  that  he  finally  shut  his  mouth  —  on  a  cigarette. 

He  found  he  needed  it. 

Ursula  seized  herself  again,  as  the  French  say,  the  fol- 
lowing day, —  she  may  have  done  so  within  the  hour,  we 
will  not  answer  for  her  strict  methods, —  and  forgot  the 
impropriety  of  that  midnight  scene  as  rapidly  as  possible. 
The  first  result,  Johnny  noticed, —  he  was  studying  her 
passionately  by  now  —  was  that  she  wanted  to  change 
quarters.  She  did  not  want  to  go  on  looking  at  that  room 
where  she  had  forgotten  herself  —  or  discovered  herself 

—  anyhow  lowered  herself  before  his  eyes.     After  all,  the 
best  people  may  have  nightmares  at  times,  and  she  was  not 
often  like  that.     Indeed,  looking  back,  she  had  never  been 
so  before  in  her  recollection.     Even  in  her  first  youth  she 
had  had  to  keep  up  her  position  as  elder  sister,  with 
various   critical  young  brothers   just  behind   her.     The 
thing  was  exceptional,  and  so  might  be  overlooked. 

Ursula  overlooked  it.  Feeling  better,  after  about  a 
month  in  another  nice  place,  which  she  chose, —  and  where 
Johnny  picked  up  some  people  with  whom  he  behaved  a 
good  deal  too  conspicuously  for  her  perfect  peace  of  mind, 

—  she  declared  that  she  wanted  English  things,  not  the 
perpetual  imitation, —  and  took  him  home. 

She  took  him  to  the  Hall.  Having  been  ill,  really  given 
way,  and  so  made  herself  interesting  in  the  eyes  of  John's 
inexplicable  family,  she  was  treated  with  great  considera- 
tion, and  offered  her  choice  in  the  matter  of  a  spring 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  "      435 

residence.  She  was  given  to  understand  that  her  courte- 
ous father-in-law  and  her  benevolent  Grandmamma  would 
accommodate  themselves.  This  was  really  rather  nice, 
and  Ursula  chose  the  Hall  with  her  usual  capable  prompti- 
tude. The  Hall  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  of  the  scenes 
she  most  disliked  remembering,  in  the  first  place.  Also, 
of  all  the  Ingestre  houses,  appertaining  to  John  or  his 
father,  it  was  her  favorite  quarters,  where  she  was  hap- 
piest and  felt  most  firm  on  her  feet.  She  really  enjoyed 
its  atmosphere  of  aloof  aristocracy,  soft  servitude,  and 
immemorial  calm.  It  is  just  for  such  people  as  Ursula 
that  ancestral  mansions  and  their  traditions  are  made. 

John  enjoyed  the  English  country  too, —  she  thought  of 
him  in  making  her  selection,  and  consulted  him  even. 
She  was  not  purely  selfish  in  the  matter :  though  she  had 
little  doubt  he  would  sooner  have  gone  back  to  the  wilds  of 
Routhwick  and  that  dreary  house.  For  his  own  stately 
antecedents  he  cared  little,  except,  of  course,  for  the 
beautiful  things,  pictures  and  so  on,  they  had  passed  down 
to  him,  and  for  a  few  of  their  more  disreputable  personal 
lives.  He  seemed  to  care  less  than  ever  for  aristocratic 
decorum  now, —  he  was  growing  worse, —  Ursula  greatly 
feared  he  would  prove  eccentric  at  the  end  of  all.  How- 
ever, Markham  and  the  men  loved  him  just  as  much  as 
ever,  and  Ursula  herself  had  sent  away  the  housemaid 
with  the  hair  to  whom  he  had  so  vividly  objected,  the 
morning  after  the  bridge  broke  down.  She  could  venture 
easily  now,  being  the  Mrs.  Ingestre, —  the  only  one  that 
mattered, —  to  do  so. 

It  was  a  warm  morning  of  March,  and  she  was  feeling 
fairly  "  fit "  and  had  recovered  all  her  ancient  authority 
and  gracious  calm,  when  she  laid  down  the  paper  at  break- 
fast, just  as  John  came  in.  He  picked  it  up  one-handed 
in  passing  to  his  place,  and  as  he  did  so,  his  head  being 
turned  from  her,  she  said,  to  forestall  any  unnecessary 
exclamation  — 

"  Violet  Shovell's  got  a  son." 


436  THE  ACCOLADE 

He  stopped  as  though  shot,  his  back  still  turned  to  her. 
Then  he  unfolded,  and  looked  at  the  paper.  Then  he 
threw  it  on  the  table  unread,  and  passed  on  to  his  own 
place. 

"  Good  for  her,"  he  said  absently. 

He  sat  down  still  thoughtful,  his  glance  diverted.  It 
was  several  seconds  before  his  eyes  took  their  natural 
direction,  down  the  long  table,  to  his  wife.  Then,  imme- 
diately and  abruptly,  he  got  up  again. 

"  Ursula, —  for  Heaven's  sake "  he  said. 

In  the  very  act  of  speaking  to  him,  when  she  herself  had 
been  least  prepared  for  it,  Ursula  had  collapsed.  Her 
head  was  on  her  arms,  on  the  table,  she  was  sobbing  with 
the  abandonment  of  pure  exhaustion, —  she  had  long  been 
worn  out.  This,  one  of  the  many  possibilities  she  had  set 
aside,  refused  to  look  at,  had  taken  her  unaware,  just 
when  she  thought  she  had  reached  contentment,  some  sort 
of  repose.  That  girl  —  with  everything  —  it  was  too 
much! 

"  Go  away,  don't  touch  me,"  she  sobbed,  furious,  fight- 
ing with  his  hand.  But  of  course  he  did  touch.  While 
she  had  been  hedging,  hiding  from  him,  all  that  winter,  he 
had  been  waiting  for  this,  as  unconsciously.  It  must  out : 
he  knew  it  must,  eventually :  she  was  human,  after  all. 
One  day  she  would  have  to  show  him  her  true  face. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  now,  by  force:  he  could  use 
force  when  necessary,  and  her  strength  was  nothing  to 
his.  There  was  only  one  thing  clear  to  him,  she  had  some- 
how to  be  consoled.  He  owed  her  something, —  a  good 
deal,  when  you  came  to  think.  He  could  not  stand  and 
look  on  at  her  so  suffering,  really  suffering,  under  the 
scourge.  So  he  acted  it,  and  acted  superbly.  He  had 
never  so  put  his  heart  into  a  part  before.  He  felt  tri- 
umphant, in  advance.  Grand,  it  was,  to  see  all  her 
defenses  crumble,  vanish,  and  the  truth  sweep  through. 
All  he  knew,  Johnny  encouraged  it,  sought  to  relieve  her 
of  that  stagnant  mass  of  shamming,  of  false  superiority 


"AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING"      437 

to  mortal  weakness,  once  for  all.  It  was  the  one  hope  for 
her,  he  knew  that.  That  was  the  doctoring  she  needed. 

She  was  simply  helpless  before  him.  Love  him?  —  of 
course  she  did.  Who  could  help  it,  when  he  made  himself 
like  that?  Her  young  John,  the  original,  the  long-lost,  at 
last  fulfilling  all  her  poor  little  weakly  dreams.  She  had 
been  at  his  mercy,  really,  ever  since  that  evening  at  Routh- 
wick  when  he  had  reasoned  with  her  in  her  wretched 
jealousy,  and  taken  her  hand.  That  long  tete-a-tete  she 
had  chosen  in  the  north  had  brought  a  most  natural 
vengeance  on  herself.  Each  stroke  she  had  aimed  at  him, 
in  obscurity,  not  letting  herself  look  at  him  in  the  light, 
had  recoiled  on  herself  in  the  end.  This  was  the  last 
shock,  the  irrecoverable :  for  she  felt  she  loved. 

She  struggled  for  a  period,  all  her  pride  struggled 
against  his  consolations,  his  cajolery.  She  told  him  she 
hated  him,  several  times.  But  that  was  nothing, —  Johnny 
had  heard  that  sort  of  thing,  in  life,  before.  He  was  set 
on  conquest,  and  he  conquered.  After  all,  he  knew  her 
pretty  well:  better  than  she  knew  him,  by  far, —  by  far. 
.  .  .  He  hemmed  her  in,  made  her  listen  to  him,  look  at 
him,  kiss  him  even.  He  did  not  ask  to  be  forgiven,  that 
was  ridiculous,  art  itself  could  not  stretch  to  that.  But  he 
asked,  if  she  did  not  mind  too  awfully,  to  be  liked :  tempo- 
rarily, of  course :  just  for  the  moment,  till  she  felt  better, 
and  could  eat  her  breakfast.  And  Ursula,  lost  to  com- 
mercial calculation,  went  beyond  liking  inevitably,  and 
gave  him  about  four  times  what  he  asked. 

She  bethought  herself  later,  and  regretted  it,  but  it  was 
done.  A  terrible  thing,  feminine  weakness !  —  a  thing  to 
be  escaped,  at  all  costs.  Only,  being  females,  they  can- 
not,—  that  is  the  beauty  of  it.  Johnny  had  learned  that, 
if  nothing  else,  in  the  course  of  his  fruitful  youth. 

Later  still,  he  went  out  into  the  green  Spring  woods, 
alone,  to  think  about  it:  and  to  do  penance,  no  doubt, 
before  Helena's  woodland  shrine.  She  lived  under  the 
leaves  for  him,  as  Rosalind  did  in  Arden,  and  he  could 


438  THE  ACCOLADE 

find  her  there  with  no  difficulty.  But — really,  life  was 
very  odd.  .  .  .  He  wondered  during  that  hour's  walk,  for 
the  first  time  he  wondered  with  all  his  soul,  whether  that 
logical  girl,  Miss  Jacoby,  had  not  found  the  simplest  way. 

However,  he  did  not  destroy  himself ;  he  came  home  to 
dinner,  and  wrote  some  letters  afterwards.  We  will  give 
the  letters  he  wrote,  because  it  occurs  to  us  that  our  hero, 
a  practiced  and  persistent  letter-writer,  has  not  been 
treated  fairly  in  this  regard.  It  is  our  duty  to  do  our  best 
for  all  men,  and  especially  heroes :  so  we  do  it,  rather  late. 

He  wrote  first  to  Quentin,  with  whom  he  had  been  cor- 
responding pretty  regularly,  during  his  winter  abroad; 
though  principally  upon  Quentin's  own  subjects,  as  to 
which  John,  whose  historical  reading  was  wide  and  up-to- 
date,  knew  a  good  deal  more  than  he  commonly  cared  to 
show.  Quentin  made  no  secret  of  his  opinion  that 
Ingestre  ought  to  go  into  Parliament,  and  had  been  putting 
his  persuasions  in  every  possible  form, —  fruitlessly.  Not 
because  Quentin  was  young, —  on  paper  Johnny  forgot  his 
age,  since  he  was  clever,  and  treated  him  as  a  man  and 
a  brother,  very  willingly, —  but  because  Mr.  Ingestre  did 
not  agree  as  to  the  moral  obligation.  He  was,  in  response 
to  Quentin's  well-urged  appeal,  hopelessly  personal.  He 
knew  far  too  much,  so  it  appeared,  of  the  private  history 
of  prominent  members  in  both  houses, —  for  several  gen- 
erations back,  what  was  worse, —  to  have  the  smallest 
respect  remaining  for  his  country's  most  cherished  institu- 
tions. He  appended  to  his  injurious  remarks  a  couple  of 
finished  word-portraits  of  his  friends  Mr.  Hertford,  M.P., 
and  young  Lord  Dering,  by  way  of  illustration,  without 
names  ;  yet  both  so  terribly  true  to  type  that  Quentin,  who 
was  hampered  in  life  by  a  sense  of  humor,  was  laid  low 
for  the  time  being  by  laughter,  and  could  get  no  further 
with  the  argument.  Johnny  added  as  an  afterthought  that 
he  hated  London, —  as  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 
Quentin  hated  London  too. 

The  present  letter  ran  as  follows : 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  "      439 

"  MY  DEAR  AUBERON, 

"  Don't  be  an  ass.  It  may  be  as  you  say,  that  you 
ought  to  read  it,  though  Lord  forbid  I  should  ever  take 
my  duty  to  pieces  so  carefully:  but  first,  you  won't  have 
it  to  read,  because  it's  exactly  as  much  my  concern  as 
yours,  and  I  read  all  that  was  necessary :  and  second,  you 
can't  have  it,  because  it's  burnt.  Can't  get  beyond  that, 
can  you  ?  Very  well,  shut  your  mouth. 

"  Of  course  you  can  have  me  up  in  the  courts  of  jus- 
tice :  only  I  warn  you  in  advance  that  the  document  that 
bequeathed  the  thing  to  you  is  burnt  as  well,  and  that 
Ursula  will  say  anything  in  a  witness-box  that  I  tell  her. 
I  may  have  to  tell  her  to  say  the  opposite,  but  anyway  she 
will  say  what  I  want.  And  as  soon  as  I  have  a  minute, 
I'm  going  to  jolly  well  give  it  her  for  giving  my  secrets 
away,  because  of  course  it  was  she.  Women  ought  to  be 
muzzled,  they  shall  be  next  time  my  side  comes  in. 
What's  more,  I  strongly  suspect  in  whose  ear  she  breathed 
it.  You  can  tell  young  Falkland  I  thought  he  had  more 
discretion.  He's  a  rough-haired  young  rotter,  tell  him. 
But  I  suppose  you  got  it  out  of  him,  put  the  screw  on, 
didn't  you?  A  nice  way  that  to  treat  your  friends. 

"  I  think  the  chances  are  you're  inclined  to  vex  yourself 
about  the  whole  thing  too  much.  I  also  suspect  you  have 
been  refraining  from  vexing  me.  Jolly  kind  of  you,  but 
the  fact  is,  it's  not  worth  it.  The  case  is  not  worth  it, 
meaning  the  girl.  If  it  had  not  been  you,  it  would  have 
been  another, —  me  probably, —  that  I  swear.  The  only 
difference  would  have  been,  I  should  have  told  her  to  go 
to  the  devil,  and  she'd  have  gone  and  done  it  just  the 
same.  It's  a  case  of  temperament,  do  you  grasp,  and 
that's  '  disease,'  if  you  like  to  call  it  so.  But  your  dashed 
education  will  never  have  any  effect  upon  it,  nor  your  nice 
religion  either.  The  latter,  so  far  as  I've  noticed,  makes 
it  rather  worse. 

"  I  send  you,  in  this  connection,  Fan  Mitchell's  letter, 
which  may  throw  some  light :  for  if  ever  a  woman  knew 


440  THE  ACCOLADE 

what  temperament  and  what  trials  mean,  she  is  that  one, 
and  let  me  have  it  back,  would  you  mind, —  but  I  needn't 
ask  you.  It's  a  beautiful  letter,  English  or  no,  and  she's 
a  beautiful  soul.  You  see  she  would  have  found  the  child 
a  chance  in  spite  of  Mitchell,  and  Mitchell's  no  joke.  If 
only  the  stupid  kid  would  hve  waited  another  month  or 
two, —  but  they  never  wait. 

"  Close  the  page,  do  you  mind  ?  It's  better  for  all  par- 
ties. When  I  last  saw  old  Darcy  she  was  planning  never 
to  move  again,  but  to  die  where  she  was.  She  told  me 
so.  What's  more  I  fear  she'll  do  it,  if  not  distracted,  be- 
cause my  mother's  death,  coming  on  top  of  the  other  thing, 
broke  her  badly.  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  Miss  Falkland,  do 
you  think,  to  go  and  see  her?  She  wouldn't  be  afraid? 
I'd  send  my  young  cousin,  only  unluckily  she's  rather 
taken  up  for  the  moment,  so  I'm  driven  to  apply  else- 
where. Could  you  get  in  a  request  some  time  or  other, — 
don't  mind  about  mentioning  me." 

Johnny  was  just  going  to  sign  it,  when  he  stopped, 
leant  back  a  moment  "  drooping  his  eyes,"  and  added 
above  the  signature  — 

"  And  I  say,  would  you  mind  asking  Miss  Falkland  to 
marry  you?  I  understand  it's  expected  of  you,  and  has 
been  for  some  time." 

"  That'll  do  him,"  he  thought,  as  he  sealed  the  letter  up. 
"  And  Heaven  help  her,"  he  privately  added. 

To  Miss  Darcy  he  wrote,  that  the  miniature  of  the 
Marechale  had  been  examined  by  the  experts,  just  to  see 
that  it  was  all  right,  after  its  last  remarkable  escapade, 
and  re-valued  by  the  way.  And  that  the  price  put  on  the 
pink  lady's  little  head  was  really  so  preposterous,  that  he 
could  not  reconcile  it  with  his  conscience  to  keep  her  at 
the  Hall.  So  would  Miss  Darcy  mind  resuming  her 
guardianship,  at  least  for  a  time,  until  he  had  had  a  safe 


"  AS  IT  WAS  IN  THE  BEGINNING  "      441 

made?  And  would  she  mind  keeping  the  transaction 
dark  from  Johnny's  father,  until  he  had  had  a  safe  made 
for  himself? 

To  Violet  he  wrote  — 

"  MY  DEAREST  GIRL, 

"  That's  as  it  should  be,  never  mind  the  rest. 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  you  in  your  happiness,  but  I  can't, 
you  must  excuse.  My  present  business  is  to  see  Ursula 
through.  Nor  have  I  pressed  her  for  a  message,  nor  will 
I  invent  one,  when  the  heavens  are  showering  real  bless- 
ings on  you.  My  own  you  will  take  as  intended,  straight 
from  the  middle  of  these  green  woods.  You  can  simply 
have  no  notion  what  they  are  this  year.  Or  at  least  per- 
haps you  can,  Mrs.  Shovell,  with  the  spring  in  your  arms. 

"  Markham  was  moved,  when  I  told  him.  I  had  to 
entreat  him  to  keep  calm.  His  eyes  rolled  for  a  time,  and 
he  seemed  big  with  prophecy.  But  nothing  came  of  it 
except  to  request  his  respectful  remembrances,  which  I 
hereby  send.  It  may,  of  course,  have  a  dark  significance. 
Markham  may,  at  heart,  be  a  traitor  to  the  younger  line. 
But  for  all  these  years  I  have  spent  in  cultivating  him,  I 
shouldn't  like  to  think  it,  darling,  so  I  won't.  I  left  feel- 
ing polished  by  the  mere  contact,  as  usual.  I  often  think, 
if  Markham  had  been  my  father  —  never  mind. 

"  My  Life  is  finished, —  don't  be  alarmed:  I  mean  that 
of  my  great-grandfather's  great-uncle.  My  own  is  going 
on  a  bit  longer,  I  expect,  at  least  I  never  felt  so  inex- 
tinguishably alive  as  I  do  this  March.  I  want  you  to  read, 
mark,  and  digest  the  Life,  however,  not  only  because  it's 
jolly  good  stuff,  and  a  beastly  well-contrived  defense  of  a 
blackguard,  nor  because  you  may  have  some  remarks  to 
offer  on  some  parts  of  it,  to  which  I  shall  not  attend, —  but 
because  it  may  open  your  eyes  to  some  things  in  this  black- 
guard by  the  way.  That's  why  I  had  to  defend  him, 
probably.  His  love-letters  are  simply  ripping,  just  like 


442  THE  ACCOLADE 

mine,  and  it's  a  close  thing  which  are  the  worse  spelled, 
the  French  or  the  English.  One  of  my  dishonesties  is  to 
transcribe  them  all  correctly  —  I  mean  incorrectly  —  I 
corrected  them.  It's  a  pity,  though.  Why  haven't  we 
the  spunk  nowadays  to  spell  as  we  choose? 

"  If  I  grow  to  be  old,  Violet,  as  he  did,  and  can  avoid 
drink,  as  he  did  not,  I  should  like  to  write,  for  the  sake  of 
such  friends  as  are  left  me,  the  history  of  this  last  year.  I 
suppose  the  wise  man,  the  sapient,  never  surprises  him- 
self. Which  is  as  much  as  to  say,  heaven  has  no  surprises 
left  for  him.  Poor  brute !  All  the  same,  if  I  had  known 
there  was,  in  earth  or  heaven,  such  glory  lurking,  I  should 
not  have  ragged  the  heavens  in  my  youth  so  blatantly. 
As  it  is,  I'm  a  bit  shy  of  them,  the  scene-shifters  aloft. 
For  who  knows,  next  time  they  open,  what  they  mayn't 
have  to  show? 

"  I  think  H.  will  come  to  you,  and  soon.  I  see  her 
when  I  see  your  face,  with  your  child.  And  hers  antici- 
pating, shadowing, —  but  don't  let  her  know  too  soon.  I 
feared  for  a  moment,  you  know,  I  had  shaken  her  out  of 
her  natural  growth,  like  forcing  a  wild-flower,  a  horrid 
thing.  But  keep  her  back  —  you  can,  my  little  wise 
woman  —  keep  her  out  of  doors,  since  that's  her  place. 
Let  it  come  slow,  so  it  will  last  long,  and  remain  good  for 
her,  entirely  good,  to  the  uttermost  end.  I  should  blame 
myself  otherwise.  I  do,  as  it  is.  It  is  a  situation  I  can't 
manage,  since  I  could  not  foresee  it, —  beats  me, —  lays 
me  out.  The  only  one  in  the  world. 

"  Love  to  Margery.     Thine,  same  as  ever, 

"  JOHN." 


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